


Une histoire de bleu

by ceeturnalia (traveller)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 100,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1837783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The first time d'Artagnan met Athos, he pulled a gun on him, and the ensuing fight ended with d'Artagnan pressed up against the wall of the alley, Athos holding d'Artagnan's own gun under his chin. Athos met his furious gaze with the bluest eyes d'Artagnan had ever seen, obviously angry but still in control; they were jammed chest to chest, and d'Artagnan's heart was pounding with adrenaline but Athos wasn't even breathing hard.</em> That's enough,<em> he'd said.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/gifts).



> to Melly, my heart. 
> 
> title and epigraph from Jean-Michel Maulpoix's work of the same name.

_Nous connaissons par ouï-dire l'existence de l'amour_

**prologue**

Charles d'Artagnan was in Afghanistan with the ISAF the day that his father Alexandre was murdered in a hotel room in Orleans. The elder d'Artagnan was shot at point blank range in the head, was not robbed, and the signs of struggle were few – it seemed he was subdued quickly. M. d'Artagnan had only checked in minutes before the killing; his case was on the bed, and he was still wearing his overcoat.

The assailant had entered the hotel via means unknown, and only a nondescript figure—average height, average build, face shadowed by a hooded sweatshirt—appeared on the security cameras. The only thing even resembling a clue, the Orleans _gendarmerie_ told the younger d'Artagnan when he arrived from Kabul two days following the murder, was the torn piece of a business card found in M. d'Artagnan's coat pocket. The scrap had a distinctive blue and gold fleur-de-lis logo stamped on it, and still remaining were the letters T-r-é-v-i and O-l-i-v, along with half of a Paris telephone number.

Tréville Sécurité, the company to which that logo belonged, did have in its employ an Olivier d'Athos, who was a senior security officer, and on the night of the murder, this Athos was indeed in Orleans. He, with another agent, and their client, were staying in a different hotel on the same street. He claimed to have been alone in his room all night, and to have no knowledge of how the piece of card came to be in the murdered man's pocket.

The story of how young d'Artagnan made his way to Paris, confronted Athos, met with Jean-Armand Tréville, CEO of the security company, and with Porthos du Vallon and René 'Aramis' d'Herblay, the rest of Athos'  _trinôme_ ; how Athos' team proved his innocence, but alas did not find the real murderer — this is all left in the hands of the storytellers who came before.. What I have to offer is the rest of the story. 

Tréville Sécurité has been more or less the personal army of the very rich, very aristocratic Bourbon family for generations—a once-minor branch of the royal house, who managed to hang on to their money, lands and—if not their titles—their heads, by allying with a loyal group of soldiers. The captain of that group was the company's eponymous Tréville  _père._

Today, TS is one of France's largest private security firms, and their main client remains the Bourbon family and its corporate interests. Their best teams travel with Louis Bourbon and his wife, accompanying them together or separately as needed. Anne Autriche Bourbon is a model and occasional actress who is frequently pursued by paparazzi and fans; while not quite so famous in the United States; in Europe she can hardly leave the house without close protection. Louis Bourbon, in contrast to his wife, is decidedly unpopular, particularly in the years since he named old family friend Armand du Plessis as COO of the Bourbon business conglomerate.

Years ago the papers nicknamed du Plessis "M. le Cardinal" because of his affection for Italian tailoring, almost always in some combination of red and black. He is rarely seen without a beautiful woman on his arm, and rarely the same one for longer than a few months. Rumors have swirled about his business practices, his association with certain less legal industries, but they have always remained only that: rumors. What he is, is a ruthless businessman, and under him the Bourbon Group has made a number of buyouts of smaller, struggling Eurozone companies, transactions that have not always left the sellers happy. Louis, as the name and face of the corporation, bears most of the public’s hate. 

When the matter of Alexandre d'Artagnan's murder was, following Athos' exoneration, left open with no other leads, Jean-Armand Tréville called d'Artagnan in and offered him a job.

"Monsieur," he answered, stunned. "I can't just leave the army."

"No," Tréville agreed. "But I may know a few people. If you want in here, it can be done." 

 

**one**

In Afghanistan d’Artagnan been part of a team training local law enforcement, struggling with the language barrier, chronic supply shortages, and the knowledge that any day could turn to shit without warning. There were stretches of quiet that sometimes went on long enough to start to get boring, but he’d quickly learned not to trust them. Just when you started to get comfortable was usually when something exploded, when bullets started flying, when somebody got dead. 

D'Artagnan spends the better part of his first four months at TS battling with that instinct, with the certainty that if he starts to relax into the job, into life in the city, something fucking awful is going happen. The job doesn’t help; the job is built around anticipating worst-case scenarios, and the pace is intense. 

Officially, they are Team Three of the Close Security Department. Teams One through Six are exclusively on either Louis or Madame Anne when they are away from home, even if ‘away’ just means going shopping, or out for drinks. The Household teams handle all security concerns for the Bourbons when they are at home; Corporate covers the company executives, with the exception of du Plessis, who employs his own security. When the team isn’t on assignment they're prepping for assignments, they're reading background on potential threats, surveilling buildings and routes, working out, sparring, practicing at the gun range.

"Some of it may seem trivial," Athos tells him early on, as they’re reviewing maps of Orly Airport for what feels like the thousandth time. "But say Madame is caught by photographers while shopping, and you don't know where the exits are, you don't know the fastest way back to the car. Say Madame is surrounded, someone bumps or pushes her, she falls and is injured. It's on us to know every possible way to keep our clients from harm."

"Athos is making great strides in learning to control the weather," Aramis says, leaning over the map with a red wax pencil and marking out the current renovations in the terminal. This corridor, blocked. This lift, closed. "It was difficult at first, since his natural talent is for producing thunderclouds."

Athos gives Aramis a suitably stormy glare across the table. Aramis beams back like the sun itself, and continues his marking.

They're like that, that easy back and forth, walking in step, always anticipating each other's moves. They socialize as a team, dinner, drinking; sometimes they take work back to Athos’ place and do their research from his comfortable sofas. D'Artagnan is always invited along, but he still has no idea where he fits with them. He’d been friendly with his team back in Afghanistan, with his squad before then as well. He’s always made friends easily, and he feels most of the time like he’s getting on here, but his tension still remains. He's heard that they've gone through a lot of fourth members, who usually beg for reassignment after as little as a week; he's heard that Souza, the department head, had all but given up on rounding out the team before d’Artagnan himself came along. Souza agreed with Tréville’s judgment, and seems to think he's going to be a good match, but it's hard to tell.

So d'Artagnan tries to figure them out, tries to gather information and assess it like it was an op, like a job. Porthos' impoverished childhood isn’t a secret; he isn't voluble about it but he doesn’t shy from it, either. His early years with his mother in the projects, later life at the care home, what he refers to as his punk teens before joining the army. All of Porthos' emotions show on his face, his heart spills down his sleeve, except when they're on the job.

D'Artagnan learns the most about Aramis, who clearly never met a story he wasn't happy to embellish, but d'Artagnan starts to learn how to pick out the truth in the tales. Amidst all the epic adventures and improbable sexual escapades, Aramis reveals that he comes from a middle-class background, and that his mother was from Argentina. In their teens he became friends with Porthos, at some point he spent several years as a Legionnaire. He and Porthos share a large sunny flat in Belleville, apparently they’ve lived together off and on for ages.  

He isn't sure if Aramis is having an affair with Madame, with Porthos, or with both – the one and only time he said, "So Aramis and Madame Bourbon..." to Athos, Athos had just looked at him with his face somehow communicating threats of dismemberment and yet also remaining perfectly blank all at once.

"Seem nice," he'd finished weakly, and fled.

Athos is sometimes like a brick wall and other times like a dense maze: in either case, it's impossible to make any progress. Athos lets nothing slip about his life before about six years ago, his earliest years with the company; it is Porthos who tells d'Artagnan that Athos was married, that it ended badly, and Athos never speaks of it. More than that, Porthos does not seem to know—or if he does, he’s keeping Athos’ secrets close. 

It seems clear that Athos has money and also that he doesn't care about it -- his flat is an entire floor in an ancient townhouse in the Marais, large but minimally decorated with expensive furniture and abstract paintings. There is some debate between Porthos and Aramis as to whether he owns just the flat, or the entire building. Occasionally he drives a sedate Mercedes sedan, but most of the time rides a sleek black Ducati. His suits are plain, you might even say somber, but they are always immaculately tailored, none of them off the rack. Aramis claims that Athos is actually a _comte,_ which d’Artagnan finds outlandish enough to be true. 

Athos is not just their team leader, he’s Souza’s second in command over the rest of the Close department, and he and Souza report directly to Tréville. But Athos always stresses that he is not their boss, that in the field, they are equals. He says that when they’re working a detail they must always be in concert to work effectively. 

_I'm not your boss_ , he says, but Athos is the one who picks apart all of d'Artagnan's plans, who leans past him to point out what he's missed, what he's misread. Athos is the one constantly nudging him, pushing at him; he baits him and debates him and corrects him. Athos is the one who sends d'Artagnan home at the end of the day with the  _suggestion_  that he should get more sleep, the  _suggestion_  that he should pick up some extra time at the shooting range.  _I suggest_ , he says, but to d'Artagnan it nearly always feels like an order.

He nearly always obeys. Some of it is just deferring to Athos’ experience; some of it is just going along to get along, trying to shape himself to fit the team. Some of it is different. Some of it just feels…. Different. He leans into it when Athos adjusts his shooting stance, he argues back when Athos prods him, he goes to the gym and lets Athos massacre him on the sparring mat. Athos may claim that he's not their boss, and may even believe it himself – but he's undoubtedly their leader, and d’Artagnan finds himself more and more willing, more and more wanting, to be led.

 

In June, Constance happens. She comes rolling into his life like a grenade across the floor; he knows, he knows better than to just stand there and let it explode, but he’s so goddamn lonely and tired that he doesn’t care. She’s married, and he doesn’t care. The guy is controlling, she’s stifled and resentful, she and d’Artagnan slam together and for a couple of weeks, the danger feels like love. Then it all goes boom. 

Jacques catches them kissing in the street like fools; he orders Constance to break it off and she does. D’Artagnan can’t really blame her, it’s not like he has anything to offer a woman besides his inheritance of debt. Choosing her security over romance is the right thing to do. It doesn’t stop it hurting like hell, though. He gets blind drunk and ends up going home with a woman who turns out to want far more from him than just a good time. 

_Clarice_ spins him a story about a bastard ex-husband that she wants taken care of; wine-soaked and still smarting from Constance’s choice, he makes rash promises. Anything for you, he swears, who is the guy? I’ll handle it.  

Olivier d’Athos, she says. I think you know him, she says. 

If Constance was a grenade, Clarice is a landmine.  

She threatens him, tries to blackmail him, and d’Artagnan doesn’t see any way out except bluffing like his life depends on it, and it more or less does. Part of him is screaming to double down and handle it himself, and another part, just as loud, is saying to trust the others, to let go and let them in. He stalls her for three days before he crumbles, and tells Athos everything.

One thing about Athos that d'Artagnan has always been certain of, no matter what other mysteries there were, is that his self-control is ironclad. He never loses his temper, he never speaks without thought, everything about Athos is considered and deliberate. Even when he's been drinking, he never seems to falter.

The first time d'Artagnan met Athos, he pulled a gun on him, and the ensuing fight ended with d'Artagnan pressed up against the wall of the alley, Athos holding d'Artagnan's own gun under his chin. Athos met his furious gaze with the bluest eyes d'Artagnan had ever seen, obviously angry but still in control; they were jammed chest to chest, and d'Artagnan's heart was pounding with adrenaline but Athos wasn't even breathing hard.  _That's enough,_  he'd said.

Athos faced with his past is a man unmoored, cracked open and on the verge of sinking.

Anne is her real name, as far as anyone knows; she really is Athos’ ex-wife, but that’s as far as the truth goes. She was serving a 20-year sentence for the murder of her brother-in-law, Athos’ brother Thomas, but the conviction was overturned for some reason, and she was released after five. Athos had left everything to do with the case to his family’s attorneys, and ignored them when they tried to contact him. He had no idea she was free. 

Their plan isn’t good and it’s barely legal, but when it’s all over, d’Artagnan has a cracked rib from a bullet graze along his side, Anne is in police custody for shooting d’Artagnan, and Athos still looks as stunned as he had when d’Artagnan confessed to him the night before. 

“It was too much,” Athos tells them when the police have gone, when the four of them are slouched with a great deal of wine in a café near the Tréville building. “I couldn’t stand to even hear her name, I wanted it to be over so… fucking badly. The first time my. My lawyer called and said, we need to talk about Anne, I hung up on him. I want to believe this is it, this is really her, gone, but I fucked it up before, so who knows?” He shrugs, and pours another drink. 

"No one blames you," Aramis says, and kicks Athos under the table. Athos only twitches the corner of his mouth, and nails Aramis right in the shin.

"Christ," Aramis hisses. "All right, even that completely unnecessary assault considered, I'm not angry with you, no one is, none of us are."

"D'Artagnan nearly was killed," Athos points out, not looking at him.

"D'Artagnan is right here," he says, and yes, his ribs ache and the wound burns, but it's the least of what might have happened. "And it’s at least half my fault, or more, for not telling you sooner, for not trusting you guys."

"Trust is difficult," Athos says, and now he catches d'Artagnan's gaze. "Trust is asking a lot from another person. It's asking them to give you an enormous gift and believing they won't snatch it away again, it's." He shakes his head, and looks down at his drink.

"Sometimes we need to have our secrets," Porthos says after a moment. "A secret is not the same as a lie, not always."

"I'm not drunk enough for philosophy," Aramis says, throwing up his hand for the waiter. "Yet."

The church bells are ringing out three-thirty when d'Artagnan finds himself, injury not withstanding, in charge of pouring Athos from a taxi to his flat, guiding him up the steep stairway to the third floor. It's still unsettling, the incongruity of Athos like this, having to be told to mind his step as he lists heavily into d'Artagnan's side.

"Stay put," d'Artagnan says, propping Athos up against the wall before he tries each of the several keys on Athos' ring. After the third failed attempt he looks up to see Athos leaning out the open window at the head of the stairs, and hurries to snatch him back. "I  _said_ , stay  _put_."

Athos lolls against the wall, shaking his head. "I don't take orders anymore," he says in flat tone. "I give them."

"Not tonight you don't," d'Artagnan snaps back. It's the last key, of course, that works. "Inside, c'mon."

"I could show you sometime," Athos mumbles, slipping his arm around d'Artagnan's hips, his head a solid weight on d'Artagnan's shoulder. "You like taking my orders."

It feels like a slap, first the shock and then the burning in his cheeks, and it's all d'Artagnan can do to keep putting one foot in front of the other, steering Athos toward his room. "Not tonight," he repeats. He drops Athos in a graceless heap on the small couch at the foot of the bed. "Are you going to choke on your own vomit if I leave you?"

Athos flips his hand, dismissive, looking every inch an aristocrat in spite of being halfway to the floor. "Don't worry," he says. "This is hardly my first time."

“That much is clear,” d’Artagnan shoots back tartly. He doesn’t wait for the reply; he leaves Athos’ keys on the table and takes the Métro home. 

The train lurching over the tracks makes his stomach roll; when he closes his eyes it’s worse. Has he been so obvious? Has everything just been rolling across his face like a marquee? 

The next day they have an 11 to 11 shift escorting Louis to meetings and then to a dinner; Athos is precisely on time, spotlessly groomed, carrying two large paper cups of coffee. He puts one down on d'Artagnan's desk without a word.

It's a latte with just a hint of hazelnut, his favorite. The satisfaction of the apology is short-lived, though: Athos doesn't speak to him once the rest of the day. 

 

Sometimes d'Artagnan thinks about that first meeting, plays it over moment by moment in his mind. How he'd surprised Athos with the other two in the alley near TS – they'd been headed to the café for lunch, he learned later. Athos was off his guard, but recovered in an instant; he'd grabbed d'Artagnan by throat with one hand, by the wrist with the other, and slammed his arm down on the rim of a skip. The pain had been unbelievable, he'd dropped the gun and Athos had kicked it away.

They weren't armed, just to go to lunch, but Athos was more than a match regardless. D'Artagnan remembers shouting furious obscenities at him, swinging wide and blind and always being deflected, always being knocked back. It took days for him to realize that Athos had never once struck  _at_ him, that all his blows were parries and blocks. D'Artagnan had been fighting to kill, but Athos simply held him back.

And in the end d'Artagnan had scrabbled for the gun again, and Athos had gotten it first. He remembers it so vividly, his pulse roaring in his ears, the cold steel of the H &K's muzzle digging into the soft flesh under his chin, the weight of Athos' body against his, and those blazing blue eyes.

_That's enough_ , Athos said, and the command in his voice was so total that for a moment d'Artagnan had wanted to simply let it all go.

 

Athos pulls back from d'Artagnan, but the team is closer as a whole, operating far more smoothly than before the disaster with Anne. Awful as it was, it seems to have cemented d’Artagnan’s place. There are a couple of nasty altercations with Madame and a stalker, one with Louis and a disgruntled former employee; the team handles all of the incidents with swift efficiency. Summer begins to fade into fall and d'Artagnan realizes he's been in Paris for six months, that he doesn't miss the army or his work in Afghanistan, that he's come to think of his teammates as family. He visits the farm on a long weekend and sees that the tenants he’d found seem to be doing well. Their rent checks are swallowed up by the rest of his bills, so he’s always broke; it’s stressful, but it could be worse. He and Constance even manage to salvage their friendship.

A lot of days, he might call himself happy.

 

It's early September and they're just back from ten days in New York, jet lagged and weary, checking in their gear at headquarters. Porthos suggests getting dinner, and Aramis groans but agrees; Athos flicks a look at d'Artagnan and says, "No, I'll be going home."

"Same," d'Artagnan says after a beat, and looks away. He feels guilty, and he hasn't even done anything. "I need to relax," he adds. They've never really been off duty the whole trip, and they've got the next three days off to recover.

"Suit yourself," Porthos says, pulling d'Artagnan into a backslapping hug. He endures the same treatment from Aramis, then shoves them both toward the door.

"Go, have a good night," he says, laughing when Aramis pulls a face at him. "See you Monday."

He finishes locking up his gun, chucks his bag in the bottom of his locker to deal with later. He'll swing by tomorrow, turn in his weapon and drop his stuff at the cleaners in the daylight.

When he closes his locker, Athos is still there, watching him. D'Artagnan looks over to where he leans against the wall, hipshot and arms crossed. He looks as fresh as he did when they boarded the jet in New York almost ten hours ago. D'Artagnan feels grubby and exhausted, and suddenly very, very young.

"Come home with me," Athos says in a soft voice, and it’s such a shock that d'Artagnan can't help the noise he makes, a sort of strangled laugh.

"You don't even  _like_  me," he says, spreading his hands helplessly.

Athos sighs. "While it is perfectly possible to find someone sexually attractive and yet unlikable, that is not the case here."

"I. What?" D'Artagnan stares. “I don’t even know what that means.” 

"I made you an offer, once," Athos says, rocking away from the wall and stepping closer, just at the boundary of personal space. "You rejected it, but I don't think you meant it."

"You were dead drunk and taking a cheap shot," d'Artagnan argues. "You know how I... It was cruel."

Athos tilts his head. " _I_  was cruel? I was sincere, d'Artagnan. You're the one who walked out."

"Because I thought you were mocking me!" d'Artagnan says, furious. "Why can't you ever just say what you mean?"

"I have always said exactly what I mean," Athos answers, eyes bright. "And I meant what I said. Should I apologize for seeing that you practically shudder with bliss whenever I correct you? Should I apologize for seeing that you chase after my praise like a cat after a mouse? I won't do it. I’m tired of pretending there’s nothing here, of giving you your space to figure it out, and I think you are too. So come home with me."

D'Artagnan feels dizzy, his heart in his throat. "Is that an order?" he says, trying for light and joking but it just comes out faint and raspy.

"If you would like it to be," Athos says.

It takes him less than a second to decide. D'Artagnan nods.

Athos digs a spare helmet out of his locker and they walk in silence down to the garage; Athos rests his hand on the back of d'Artagnan's neck the whole way. His palm is warm, curled at the base of d'Artagnan's neck. He wants to push back into it. He wants to run from it. He keeps walking.

He's familiar with Athos' bike but he's never been on it. He watches Athos go through the steps of unlocking it, kicking the stand up, starting it. Athos pulls his helmet on, and beckons to d'Artagnan before dropping the visor. He swallows and puts his on, and swings his leg over the bike.

When he puts his hands lightly on Athos’ hips, just barely resting there, he can hear Athos sigh even over the rumble of the bike. Athos pulls d'Artagnan's arms all the way around his waist, pulls him forward till he's snug against Athos' back. "Hold on," Athos says loudly, and revs the engine.

_Oh God_ , d'Artagnan has time to think, and they're off.

It's a ride of about fifteen minutes, and d'Artagnan's legs are jelly by the time they reach Athos' building. He can still feel the heat of Athos' body against his chest, and he stumbles a few times on their way up the stairs.

It's very much to d'Artagnan's surprise that Athos doesn't just pounce on him when they get up to the flat.

He takes d'Artagnan's jacket and hangs it up with his own; he points d'Artagnan toward the guest room. He has slept in it a handful of times before, after late nights with the team, sometimes sharing with one of the others, sometimes taking the sofa while the other two shared.

"Take a shower, if you like," Athos says, loosening his tie as he walks toward his own room. "There are towels in the guest bath, and there are clean things in the armoire if you want to change."

He's slightly worried about what the things in the armoire are going to be, but they're just gym clothes—worn t-shirts and sweats and tracksuit bottoms, all soft and clean and smelling of the lavender  _cornets_  in the drawer. After he showers, he puts on a pair of sweats and a slightly too-small t-shirt. There isn't any underwear, so he goes without, and feels his cheeks burn at the thought that it's probably going to be irrelevant in short order anyway.

He goes out to the living room to find Athos also freshly bathed, his beard newly, neatly trimmed, and dressed in much the same way. Athos is at the door, signing for a food delivery with the sort of careless flourish of someone who's never checked their credit card balance on the their phone while standing in line at a café. It's familiar, at least: two sacks of Thai takeout, smelling deliciously of peanut and cilantro.  

Athos locks the door behind the deliveryman and tilts his head back toward the kitchen, carrying the bags, and d'Artagnan follows. One of the bags has a cold six-pack of Singha in it, and Athos cracks two open before putting the rest in the fridge.

"I'm not bothering with plates, if you don't mind," Athos says, handing one beer to d'Artagnan. "We can share cartons."

They've often shared takeout in exactly this way, late on jobs, or after them, usually all four together, often ending in someone getting mildly stabbed with a fork or a chopstick. They eat and Athos makes what passes for small talk with him, recapping the New York job—shadowing Madame through Fashion Week—the parts that went smoothly, the parts that need to be improved for Paris at the end of the month.

D'Artagnan tries to keep up, but Athos is carrying the conversation, and the pauses keep getting longer as d’Artagnan keeps getting more and more fidgety. He can't seem to stop, he can't seem to relax; his mind is whirling with images, ideas, wondering what's coming next and when. Finally Athos stops, and fixes him with a look from across the table.

"I understand why you're nervous," Athos says in a gentle voice, "but not why you're frightened. I'm not going to hurt you."

D'Artagnan shakes his head, frowning. "Isn't that the whole point?"

That makes Athos sit back. "No," he says, as seriously as he would if they were talking about a threat to Madame. "No, that is not _remotely_ the point, d'Artagnan, whatever we do, whatever you  _choose_  to do with me, is for  _you_  as much as it is for me. More. It doesn't work otherwise, believe me."

"I guess I'd always understood it like, if you, I mean, if somebody was, ah. Dominating. That they were going to be..." He trails off, making a sort of hitting gesture with his chopsticks.

Athos doesn't bother to hide his eyeroll. "Domination really just means being in charge," he says, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward. "Being in control. I want to be in control, and I want to take care of the person I'm with. It satisfies me, to give them what they want, what they need." 

"And the other?"

Athos gives him a pointed look. "Do you like to be hurt?"

"I don't know," d'Artagnan confesses. "I like. I like it when I know what's expected of me, when you tell me what you expect, and it's... satisfying. To do what you expect. And when you get at me for not doing what you expect, that's satisfying too, just, it feels different? But similar? I thought, I don't know, I thought maybe it was just a, a logical extension, maybe if I liked it when you punished me one way I'd like it if you did it another."

Athos tilts his head slightly. "Is it satisfying when Souza, or Clèment shouts at you? Or Louis?"

D'Artagnan thinks on it briefly, but he already knows the answer. "No, it's just you."

That makes Athos' mouth curve just so slightly. "So you're probably not an indiscriminate masochist."

That startles a laugh out of d'Artagnan, makes him sit back and take a long sip of his drink. He feels like he can breathe again. "All right," he says, smiling back at Athos. "That's a start."

"It's all right not to know everything you want," Athos points out, that barely-there curve still on his lips. "That is a large part of submission. It's trusting me, trusting the other person, to give you those things that maybe you didn't even realize you needed."

"When you put it like that," d'Artagnan says, watching Athos' expression carefully, "it sounds like the dominating person is actually the one serving the other."

And Athos' eyes get so, so hot when he looks back at d'Artagnan and says, "That is precisely what it is."

D'Artagnan's face flames again. "Right," he says, looking down at the table.

Athos gets up and gets himself another beer, holds out one to d'Artagnan as well. He takes it, rolling the cold bottle between his palms. Athos leans on the sink, watching.

"You've been with other men before?" d'Artagnan asks after a moment, focusing on the golden bottle, the beads of sweat rolling down its sides.

"Yes," Athos says. "I’m gay. Have you?"

"A few," he says with a nod. Athos’ declaration is contrary to everything d’Artagnan had thought he’d known, but he sets it aside to chew over later, and looks up. None of the men in his past ever looked at him like Athos is doing right now, d'Artagnan thinks. Like they were dying of thirst, and he was an oasis. “Bi, I guess.” 

"There need to be rules," Athos says, and d'Artagnan can't suppress a groan, even through a smile.

"First the army, then my job, now my sex life," he says. "Always rules."

"Weren't you just saying you like to know what's expected of you?" Athos points out.

"Yes," d'Artagnan allows, unable to suppress a flirty grin. "But I also like to complain about it."

Athos shakes his head, but he's smiling, actually smiling, teeth and all. "It's all fairly common sense," he says, apparently deciding to ignore d'Artagnan's response. "But the rules are for us both. It's not a good idea to assume, to leave things unspoken because you think the other person will just get it."

"I understand."

"If you ever want to stop, we stop," Athos says, holding up one finger. He extends the next, and the next as he goes on. "If you're ever in physical pain and you don't _want_ to be, we stop. You will always tell me when you're ready to start. I will ask, but I will never insist. _You_ decide when we play." The fourth finger goes up. "This only happens here, or somewhere else we both agree on, but never ever while on the job."

"Right." He nods.

"And if this relationship interferes at any time, in any way, with our ability to protect our clients, it ends," Athos finishes, holding up his thumb.

D'Artagnan nods, considering. "Will we be exclusive?"

He doesn't quite catch the look that passes over Athos' face, it's there and gone in a breath, but the smile falls away, replaced by that familiar near-blankness.

"I will be," Athos says, his voice too calm. "But your choices outside of this relationship are your own, I'm not interested in caging you."

"Why not?" d'Artagnan blurts out, and Athos' calm seems to shatter. He takes a step forward, away from where he'd been leaning, putting his drink down and resting one hand on the edge of the table.

"Your turn to speak plainly," he says to d'Artagnan. "Is that what you want? An exclusive relationship? Because I would take that promise very seriously, and I would expect you to do the same."

"Yes," d'Artagnan says immediately, relaxing with relief. "Yes, I want... I thought, I don't know, I don't know how many people you do this with and I—"

"I don't," Athos cuts him off. "I don't do this with anyone."

"So why me?"

"Fishing for compliments is also against the rules," Athos huffs quietly.

"I don't agree to that one," d'Artagnan says, standing up. It takes barely a step to put him right in Athos' space, so they're eye to eye. "Yes," he says. "I promise. Just you, just us. That's what I want."

He reaches to put his hands on Athos' face, but Athos catches his wrists. "You're sure?" Athos asks, a heavy finality in the question.

"I'm sure."

Athos keeps his hold on d'Artagnan's wrists, not tight, just firm, when he leans in, their lips almost touching.

"And do you want to start now?" he asks, and his eyes are so, so blue.

"Yes," d'Artagnan says, and as Athos kisses him, he feels Athos' hands tighten, holding him fast.

 

This first night Athos lays d'Artagnan out on his bed and carefully undresses him while explaining that he's going to suck and touch him, and that d'Artagnan is not going to come.

It sounds so simple, just one command to follow, but around the fifth or sixth time that Athos backs him off from the edge he's so sure he's going to fail that he starts to cry, silent tears streaming from his eyes, burning shameful and salty at the corners. Athos is there in an instant, stretched out warm and solid beside him, gathering him close and kissing his mouth, his cheeks.

"Please," d'Artagnan begs against Athos' lips. "Please."

"You're doing so well," Athos whispers, firm hands now rubbing circles on d'Artagnan's back. "You're doing such a good job, come on, breathe with me, in-out."

"I can't," d'Artagnan mumbles, shaking.

"If you can talk, you can breathe," Athos says reasonably. "Just slow it down. In, one. Out. In, two. Out. There you are, that's good. In, four. Out."

He listens to Athos' voice and he breathes, he lets Athos talk him down, and he thinks that he never thought of Athos' voice as gentle before, always having focused on the steel in it. But it is gentle, velvety and warm in d'Artagnan's ear, and he finds himself relaxing again, safely held in Athos' arms.

"Good, so good," Athos murmurs, pressing a kiss to d'Artagnan's forehead. "You can take some more, can't you?"

D'Artagnan nods slowly. "I think I can," he says, not at all certain, but overwhelmed with the desire to do it anyway, and Athos' answering smile makes his stomach drop.

This time he loses count of everything but his breaths, feeling dissolved by the intensity of the pleasure but somehow managing to leave it all to Athos, to Athos' slick fingers inside him, Athos' hot mouth around him. It could be hours, he has no idea, when Athos finally pulls off d'Artagnan's cock, curls his fingers and says, "Now. Now."

He's never felt anything like it, he thinks afterward, when he's held with gentle care to Athos' chest, shivering and shuddering like a winded horse. It was like he'd been outside his body and then abruptly slammed back in, the sensations so overwhelming that he'd begun to cry again, this time choking on sobs of pleasure.

And Athos just held him, rocked him, told him how good and how beautiful he was, all in a warm, worshipful tone, and he finds himself wanting that more fiercely than anything he's ever wanted. To make Athos, of all people, speak to him like this, look at him with such satisfaction and pride. He wants it again, right now.

He shudders in a deep breath, and presses his lips to the base of Athos' neck. "Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you, thank you."

 

It's nearly nine by the bedside clock when d'Artagnan wakes in the morning, feeling lighter and better rested than he can recall having been in months. He's sprawled across Athos' wide bed, cheek pressed into a cool gray linen pillowcase that smells faintly like sweat and Athos' shampoo. 

Last night, afterward, he'd drifted a little, lost in the warmth of Athos' body, the lulling thump of Athos' heart. Athos was quiet, carding his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair, occasionally dropping a firm kiss to the crown of his head. It had been amazing,the sense of rightness and of safety. 

Eventually Athos moved, though; he had guided d'Artagnan up and into the tub in the master bath, a huge deep claw-footed thing that he filled with steaming water and a few drops of sweet-smelling oil. He let d'Artagnan soak a few minutes, and then carefully washed him, his hands so gentle on d'Artagnan's body, sweeping over his skin with the soapy cloth. It should've been uncomfortable, it should've been embarrassing, to be a grown man bathed like a child, but in the moment it simply made sense that Athos should care for him like that. It felt just as right as being held had. 

When Athos had bundled him out of the water and into a huge soft towel, he'd stopped Athos with a kiss, his hand on Athos' cheek. "What about you?" he asked softly. 

"I'm fine," Athos said, turning his lips into d'Artagnan's palm. "Come on, it's time for bed."  

D'Artagnan fell asleep curled into Athos' side, his cheek pressed to Athos' heart. 

Breakfast, when d'Artagnan makes his way into the kitchen, appears to be cold Pad Thai and strong espresso: Athos is at the kitchen table with a carton of the former to one hand, and a cup of the latter to the other. Athos is reading  _Le Monde,_ and copies of  _Le Figaro_ and  _Libération_ sit folded at his elbow. 

"Ugh, why did you let me sleep so late?" d'Artagnan says by way of greeting, leaning down to brush a kiss over Athos' cheek. When he straightens, he has Athos' cup in hand, and takes a deep swallow, winking at Athos over the rim of the cup. 

Athos smiles faintly. "I have a routine," he says in a mild voice. "And I like quiet in the morning, which you already knew." 

He does know that, it's true. At work Athos is always cool and remote when he first arrives, only warming up—as much as he ever does—after plenty of time and caffeine. D'Artagnan nods, offers the cup back in apology. "Sorry," he says. "I can be quiet." 

Athos folds his paper and puts it down on the table, sitting back and crossing his arms. "Keep it," he says, nodding at the cup. "How quiet, exactly, do you think you can be?" 

Something in the tone of the question makes d'Artagnan's chest go tight. "As quiet as you want me to be," he promises. 

Athos raises one eyebrow. "Would you like to try putting that to the test?” 

“What do you mean?” D'Artagnan's heart thumps hard. 

“I want to know what you’re able to do for me,” Athos says, his voice gone soft and low  “So… All right. For the next hour, until I finish my papers, you will be silent. You will not be underfoot. Occupy yourself however you like, so long as it's quiet and out of my way. Understood?"  

"Yes." He nods, fingers flexing around the coffee cup. 

"If you can manage the whole hour, you'll be rewarded. If you can't, you'll be punished. Understood?" 

"Yes." 

"There's a timer on the stove. Set it." 

He opens his mouth to answer, then shuts it. Athos smiles, and picks up his newspaper. 

The first few minutes are easy. There's a coffee pot on the stove, still hot, so he refills his stolen cup and makes his way to the bookshelves in the living room. Even if Athos owned a television, he suspects watching it would not fall under "quiet," so books seem to be the safest option. There are a lot of them, meticulously arranged: history, poetry, and art, mostly. Many of them don't look like they've ever been opened, but he suspects that they've just been carefully handled. 

There's a shelf of paperbacks in English that look well loved, though, and d'Artagnan pulls out one that's thick as his forearm: _The Stand,_ by Stephen King. He recognizes the name although he's not sure what it's about; what's more intriguing is that it has clearly been read more than once. He nods, suppressing the curious noise that wants to come to his lips; after skimming the book jacket he has to work to hold back his laugh. A novel about the end of the world. Of course. Still smiling, he settles on the sofa with book and coffee, curls into the cushions, and reads. 

His spoken English is pretty good, a necessity picked up with all the Brits and Americans in Afghanistan, but he doesn’t read English all that well—definitely not as well as Athos. The writing isn’t terribly complex, but still by the time he looks up at the end of the first chapter, his drink has gone cold. He huffs, then tries to pull it back halfway through when he realizes how loud it sounds in the silence. Athos doesn't seem to have noticed, though. From his spot on the sofa d’Artagnan can just see through the kitchen doorway; Athos is leant back in his chair, his paper folded to a narrow rectangle as if he were reading on the Métro. 

D'Artagnan slips into the kitchen and checks the espresso pot; it too is cold now, and he stares at it, trying to decide how he can make more without bothering Athos, but then Athos appears behind him. 

"I'll handle it," he says, taking d'Artagnan's cup out of his hand. "Go back to your book." 

He doesn't mean to disobey, he truly doesn't. He's taken no more than two steps, when Athos reaches up for the tin of coffee on the shelf, his shirt riding up as he leans. The pale curve of Athos' lower back is revealed, and the very top of his ass, and d'Artagnan is aware of nothing in that moment except that sweep of skin, more of Athos than he's ever seen. 

"Oh," he breathes, and reaches out to brush his fingertips over Athos' hip. 

Athos freezes, but only for a moment, just long enough for d'Artagnan to pull his hand back like it's been burnt. 

"I'm sor—" he starts to say, then snaps his mouth shut again, before a very sincere  _"fuck,"_ escapes him too. 

The look on Athos' face is terrible; it's not angry or annoyed, worse, it’s sad. He puts the coffee tin down on the worktop, tugs his shirt back into place. "You had just fifteen minutes left," Athos says, pointing at the timer. 

His voice is even more disappointed than his eyes. 

D'Artagnan nods, teeth clenched together to keep his stupid mouth shut. 

"Let me make it clear what you're in trouble for," Athos says, crossing his arms. "You came back in here even though you were asked not to be underfoot — that I was willing to overlook, because you were being quiet. Then you remained although you were dismissed, and you spoke although you were asked to be silent. That makes me less inclined to be lenient, do you understand? You may answer." 

D'Artagnan takes in a deep breath. "Am I not in trouble for touching you?" 

The disappointment in Athos' expression softens. "No. No, not for that. You can, I want you to, I'm." He pauses, glances away and then back; when he speaks again his voice has gone soft and husky. "I want you to touch me, I want you to kiss me. I don't want you to be afraid to do those things. Unless I've forbidden you for some reason, I want you to feel free and comfortable to touch as much as you like. Understand?" 

"Yes. I think. The problem was I stayed after you dismissed me, not what I did after I stayed?" 

"Yes." Athos scratches his beard, and then points out into the living room. "Take your shirt off and go kneel in the middle of the rug, facing the bookshelves. Hold your hands behind your back. Keep your eyes front. You’ll finish out the fifteen minutes that were left on the timer like that. No moving. No talking. Time starts when you're in position." 

It's not  _cold_ but it's cool enough that he feels the chill on his bare skin, feels his nipples harden and his arms pebble. The rug isn't thick enough to offer much padding between his knees and the hardwood floor, the placement of his hands forces his shoulders back and his spine straight. He's not close enough to the shelves to read most of the spines, so there's really not even anything for him to look at. 

It feels like forever. He can hear Athos making the second pot of coffee, can smell it brewing. The room feels like it’s growing colder, and his stomach ripples with shivers; his knees are screaming at him, and then they start to tingle. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Athos enter the room, and sit down in a chair with his iPad. 

The bookshelves are starting to blur, and his eyes starting to water, when a distant buzzer sounds, and Athos says, "Time." 

He doesn't see Athos move, just feels warm hands on his shoulders, easing him out of the position. Athos unfolds him, lays him out on the rug and gently rubs the feeling back into his legs, the ache out of his shoulders. 

"That was perfect," Athos murmurs, gathering d'Artagnan into his arms. "You did so well. I know it's hard, but you did so well." 

He blinks, Athos' face coming into focus nearby, his mouth curved with a sweet half-smile. D'Artagnan tips his chin up, offering, and Athos kisses him, deep and heady. He doesn't know if he's allowed to talk again so he doesn't, he just makes soft, needy noises into Athos' mouth, pushes his hands into Athos' hair. 

He whines a little, when Athos pulls back, and Athos smiles again; he coaxes d'Artagnan back down to the rug and strips off his sweatpants. D'Artagnan isn't hard yet, but that doesn't stop Athos at all; he folds himself forward and licks up the inside of d'Artagnan's thigh, then bites softly at the tendon there. D'Artagnan sighs, and dares to lower his hand to the crown of Athos' head. 

Athos pushes back up into d'Artagnan's palm but doesn't shake it off; instead he takes d'Artagnan's cock in his hand and strokes it firmly, dropping kisses across d'Artagnan's belly, his hip, his thigh. 

"You took your punishment beautifully," Athos murmurs, his beard rough on d'Artagnan's skin, his fingers flexing on d'Artagnan's hardening cock. "Sitting like a perfect statue. So well done, you’re learning so fast. I'm going to suck you, you can come whenever you like." 

D'Artagnan vaguely wonders who taught Athos to suck cock like this, torturously slow and unbelievably deep. He doesn't seem to need to breathe, and d'Artagnan  _can't_ ,he's panting within minutes, staring blindly up at the ceiling. It feels, in an odd way, even more intimate than the night before; then they were in bed, in the dark. Now it's broad daylight and they're on the living room floor.  

He loses time again, like he had the night before, like he had when he was waiting out his punishment. He trembles under Athos’ mouth, pulls at his hair, and Athos just keeps going, drawing back a few times to work d’Artagnan with his hand. He does something with the back of his mouth, or his throat, d’Artagnan isn’t even sure, he just knows it feels soft and slick and amazing, that it makes him gasp like he’s been stabbed. 

“Please,” he moans, breathless. “Athos, please.” 

Athos lifts up, looks up at d’Artagnan with his cheeks flushed, his lips red and wet and swollen. “I said,” he says, his voice raspy, “come whenever you like. Or do you need me to tell you?” 

“Please,” d’Artagnan repeats, nodding. He clenches his free hand into a fist by his side. Athos’ eyes go dark. “Then come for me,” he says. “Do it.” 

_Do it._ D’Artagnan feels like the orgasm is punched out of him, somehow more violent after all of Athos’ tenderness, agonizingly good. Athos palms his cock again, stroking him through it, muttering words too low to hear as he licks the come off d’Artagnan’s skin. 

He feels like he’s just sprinted for miles, his harsh breaths loud in his own ears. He pats weakly at Athos’ head. 

“So good,” Athos murmurs, crawling up to kiss him. 

They lie there on the rug for a long time, just kissing. Athos is hard against d’Artagnan’s hip but he makes no move to do anything about it; he’s still fully dressed. D’Artagnan runs his hand up Athos’ spine, then down again, daring to dip just below the waist of his pants on the return. 

“Mm, no.” Athos kisses along d’Artagnan’s jaw. “Not yet.” 

“Am I allowed to ask why not?” d’Artagnan says, matching Athos’ quiet tone. “I’ve never even seen you with your shirt off at the gym.” 

“You are allowed to ask, and I’m allowed to not answer.” Athos props himself up on one elbow, laying his hand along d’Artagnan’s cheek. 

D’Artagnan makes a frustrated noise and Athos kisses it out of his mouth, shifting to pin d’Artagnan to the floor with his weight. He catches d’Artagnan’s wrists and holds them down by d’Artagnan’s head, loose enough to break free without much effort, if he wanted. 

“Tonight,” Athos says, punctuating the word with a firm rock of his hips that makes d’Artagnan arch and sigh. He could get hard again fairly quickly. He shifts, trying to get Athos to move again. 

“Are you paying attention?” Athos’ hands tighten on his wrists for a few seconds, not tight enough to hurt but enough that d’Artagnan blinks and focuses. 

“Yes,” he answers, meeting Athos’ eyes. 

“Tonight,” Athos repeats, slacking his grip. He brushes a soft kiss over d’Artagnan’s mouth. “But you’re going to be busy all day.” 

“Oh?” He gives Athos a dirty smile, and Athos makes a sound, a rusty laugh. 

“Mm. Today you’re going to pull yourself together and go back to the office, pick up the things you left there last night. Do whatever things you need to do at your flat, laundry, open your mail, we were gone nearly a fortnight, surely you have things to take care of.” 

D’Artagnan blinks at him. “Why can’t I stay?” he asks, and he sounds so, so childish to his own ears that it makes him flush with embarrassment a moment later. 

Athos shakes his head, lets go d’Artagnan’s wrists and levers himself up and back to sit on his heels. He tosses d’Artagnan his sweats. 

“Because this is not your whole life,” Athos says frankly. “This will not  _become_ your whole life. If you want someone to call Master day and night, I am not that man, and I will not become him for you; if that’s what you want, best we break this off here and now.” 

D’Artagnan sits up, fumbles gracelessly into his pants. “That’s not what I want,” he mutters, looking down at the rug between his knees. There’s a small wet spot, drying on the red wool. 

“Look at me,” Athos orders, and d’Artagnan does, knowing his expression is wounded and unable to hide it. But Athos’ face isn’t angry, or even stern: his eyes are full of a depth of sympathy that d’Artagnan has never seen from him before. 

“D’Artagnan, I. I like you. You said last night you thought I didn’t, I do. I like you very much, and  _because_  of that, I want you to understand, I want.” He stops, scrubs his palm over his face with a sigh. “I don’t want you to ever look back on these days with any regrets. So you need to go, for a while, and get reacquainted with the real world.” 

He has to allow that what Athos is saying makes sense, even though part of him still wants to hear it as a rejection. He nods, and gets to his feet, casting about for the shirt he’d taken off for his punishment. 

“Here,” Athos says, standing as well and catching the shirt up off the arm of the couch. “I’ve got some trainers that shouldn’t be too tight, there’s no need for you to change back into your travelling clothes.” 

“Thanks.” He pulls the shirt back on. Like most of Athos’ wardrobe, the things he’d found to put on the night before were dark colors, without decoration: the sweats were navy, the shirt a dark green. Making his way home like this will look much less like a walk of shame than if he put his wrinkled suit back on. 

“Hey.” 

He looks up, and Athos is right there, reaching for him. He turns into Athos’ arms with a sigh, wraps his arms around Athos’ body and hugs tightly. Athos squeezes back, and d’Artagnan sighs again, wanting to hang on for as long as he can. This warm, tactile Athos is a revelation. He wants more. 

“You’re not in trouble,” Athos says, lips brushing his ear. “I will never make you wonder, all right? If there is a problem, I will tell you, I will  _always_  tell you.” 

“All right,” d’Artagnan mumbles into Athos’ shoulder. 

“I want you back here at 9 o’clock, not a minute before, not a minute later. We’ll have dinner, and we’ll talk some more.” 

“Just talk?” d’Artagnan lifts his head, and Athos’ mouth quirks. 

“I made you a promise just minutes ago, have you already forgotten?” 

Was it only minutes ago? Athos pinning him to the floor with his warm weight and his firm hands, Athos saying, _tonight_. He flushes hot, and Athos’ enigmatic smile turns into a wicked grin. 

“I remember,” d’Artagnan says, swallowing. 

“Good.” Athos cups his face and kisses him, hot and dirty, even more of a promise than his words, and d’Artagnan feels dizzy by the time he’s released. “Go on, I’ll see you tonight.”

Athos’ spare trainers fit just fine, and he stuffs his dirty clothes, his wallet and keys into Athos’ gym bag. The Chemin Vert Métro stop is just a short walk away, and the air is crisp, the sun is bright. It’s mid-morning on a Friday; people are going about their business, some in suits walking briskly, some with cameras staring up at the buildings. Pushing babies in prams, humming past on scooters. A blond man about d’Artagnan’s age stands on a corner, shouting into his mobile that he didn’t forget, he knows it’s today, would you please stop nagging,  _maman_? 

Nothing has changed. Everything is different, but nothing has changed.

 

He waits to hear the bells start to ring nine before he presses the button for Athos' flat, and resolutely doesn't count the seconds that pass before the lock disengages with a loud buzzing click. He doesn't quite jog up the stairs, but it's a near thing; he's out of breath when he skids to a stop in front of Athos' door. 

Athos is waiting in the doorway, looking at his watch. He looks up, expression unreadable. "Twenty seconds to spare," he announces. "You needn't have tried to kill yourself on the stairs, you know. You're no use to me with a broken neck." 

"Nice to see you too," d'Artagnan says, trying to get his lungs to start working again. 

"It's very nice to see you," Athos says, stepping forward to take the bag off d'Artagnan's shoulder. He tosses it through the open doorway; it lands with a soft whump. "Come here." 

D'Artagnan is distantly embarrassed by how he melts into Athos' arms, but he refuses to engage it. Athos pulls him in, one hand in the small of his back, the other firm on the back of his neck; they are of a height, and the kiss feels so natural and easy that d'Artagnan sighs into it. 

"Very nice," Athos repeats in an undertone. He pushes his fingers into d'Artagnan's hair, tugging lightly on the loose strands. In the months since leaving the army he's let his hair grow out like he did as a teenager, and it's past his ears now, almost shoulder-length. He pulls it back for work, but tonight he's left it down, and Athos is clearly pleased. 

He kisses Athos again, feeling daring, and Athos opens to it immediately, adjusting his stance to bring his hips more firmly against d'Artagnan's. This time, he swears that Athos sighs too. 

A few more deep, heady kisses later, Athos finally lets go, wiping the side of his hand across his mouth. "You are obscene," he says, shaking his head. "Come inside, before my neighbors call the police." 

"Do you even have neighbors?" d'Artagnan wonders, following Athos through the door. He kicks off his shoes next to the pairs already inside. "I've never seen anyone else coming and going." 

"Mm," Athos non-answers, scooping up d'Artagnan's discarded bag from the entryway floor. "What did you bring?" 

"Ah. Just, you know. Toothbrush and all. A couple changes of clothes, I hope that's not—" 

"That's fine." Athos nods, his expression soft. "I should have told you to bring some things. Go on into the kitchen, I'll just put this away." 

Dinner is takeout again, Vietnamese this time. When they're seated, Athos pushes one of two plastic tubs of steaming chicken  _phở_ over to him, leaving the cartons of spring rolls and fried rice in the middle. 

"Don't get me wrong, this is delicious," d'Artagnan says after a few minutes, sucking a stray bit of noodle off the end of his chopsticks. "But do you ever just, you know. Cook?" 

Athos gives him a long, unimpressed look, the kind he is used to seeing when he gets frustrated at the shooting range and empties his clip into the target's groin. 

"What exactly," Athos says, "about me says 'likes cooking' to you?" 

D'Artagnan bursts out laughing, just barely avoiding choking on his soup. Athos is right, of course; the kitchen in the flat is large and modern, but there's no evidence of anything ever  _happening_ in it. No hanging pans, no oven mitts or dishtowels. Only the coffee pot is burnished with the stains and scorches of regular use. The idea, the image, of Athos fussing over pots and pans, is just so absurd. 

"Sorry," he gasps, tapping the tabletop. "Sorry, just." 

"You're allowed to laugh," Athos says, smiling more broadly than usual. "We're not  _on_ right now, you can. Relax, it's just dinner." 

D'Artagnan wipes his eyes with his napkin, nodding. "Good. I. Good, listen. I love to cook, okay? I'll cook for you. If you want? Maybe tomorrow? It's a wonder you don't have rickets." 

"Vietnamese food is very nutritious," Athos says seriously. D'Artagnan takes that as a yes, and nods again. 

"Right, tomorrow. We’ll need groceries." 

"As you like." Athos inclines his head, and picks up another spring roll. 

It's easier to relax than it was the night before, now that he has some idea what's happening, now that he has seen Athos' face at its warmest, those beautiful eyes bright as he leans in for a kiss. There are still nerves – he's been keyed up with anticipation all day – but it's  _easier._ D'Artagnan sits back, enjoys his food, and teases Athos, who responds dry as dust. There's tart, cold white wine and he has two glasses before Athos takes the bottle off the table. 

"If you're drunk, it's not safe for you," Athos says, and this time there's no undercurrent of teasing in his voice. He recorks the bottle and puts it in the wine refrigerator. That one, d'Artagnan notes, is large and well stocked. "And if I'm drunk, it's not safe for you." 

He comes back around the table, leaning back on the stove to face d'Artagnan. "If you ever come to me while drunk, and want to play," Athos continues, "I will refuse. If you come to me and I am..." He shakes his head. "It's good you didn't take up my first invitation on the spot," he says after a long pause. "I was in no fit state." 

"It's all right," d'Artagnan says, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "I understand." 

"If we're ever both drunk at the same time, well." Athos quirks his eyebrow. "Hopefully we just pass out before doing any harm." 

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," d'Artagnan says cautiously. He rubs a spot of sauce on the tabletop with his thumb, looking up in time to see Athos' face shutter. 

"I am." Athos looks away for several beats; two or three times he opens his mouth as though to say something, and then shuts it again. Finally, he looks back at d'Artagnan, and nods. "I'll tell you about some of my… experience. Someday, if you decide that—" 

"It’s fine," d'Artagnan says, getting up. He crosses the kitchen in a couple of long strides, and pulls Athos to him. Athos is stiff at first, then he unbends, brings his arms up around d'Artagnan's back and holds tight. It feels good, unexpected but incredibly good, to be comforting Athos the way that Athos has comforted him. 

"Whenever. Never. I don't care." 

“No, you should hear it.” Athos steps back to arm’s length, leaving one hand resting on d’Artagnan’s chest. “I would prefer to spare us both the conversation, but if we do this— I mean, it may become. Necessary.” The smile he offers is strained, but then he shakes his head and draws his hand back. 

“There are things we need to discuss now, though,” Athos says, and tilts his head toward the living room. “We can go sit down in there, or we can stay here at the table, it’s up to you. There are a few serious issues we haven’t covered, so I don’t want too much distraction, but I also don’t want you to feel like you’re negotiating a bank loan.” 

The comparison makes d’Artagnan smile. “I’d rather sit someplace comfortable, if it’s all the same. I promise I’ll keep my hands to myself.” 

“As you like,” Athos says again, and leads the way. 

They arrange themselves on the sofa, each against opposite arms. Athos draws his legs up tailor-fashion; d’Artagnan stretches his out, his feet not quite into Athos’ lap. Athos wraps one hand around d’Artagnan’s ankle, thumb stroking over the bone there. 

“I thought you said no distraction.” 

Athos’ smile is finally returning to its earlier warmth. “I said not too much. Are you distracted?” 

“A little,” d’Artagnan admits, “but not so much that I can’t think straight.” 

“Mm.” Athos stops rubbing, but leaves his fingers loosely curved around d’Artagnan’s ankle. “How’s that?” 

He curls his toes. “That’s nice.” 

Athos watches him for a moment, and then nods. “All right. The serious part. If you agree, if you want it, I’m going to fuck you tonight.” 

D’Artagnan feels a burst of heat through his body, his cheeks and his belly burning with it; he can’t stop the way his muscles contract and jerk. Athos tightens his hand for a moment, and d’Artagnan shivers. He nods. “All right. I mean, yes. I do.” 

“I’m going to fuck you,” Athos repeats, “but a number of other things may happen before we get to that part, and before I can make any responsible decisions about what those things will be, I need to know exactly what you are and aren’t comfortable with.” 

“Right.” D’Artagnan says. There are dozens of images flashing in his head, like a porno at high speed. “I’m. I’m fine with whatever you’re fine with.” 

“No,” Athos says, and gives d’Artagnan’s ankle another squeeze. “Absolutely never give anyone a blank check like that. Not me, not anyone.” 

I’m never going to do this with anyone else, he thinks, but he nods his agreement. “All right, I’m sorry.” 

“You don’t have to be sorry for what you don’t know.” Athos relaxes a little, his expression softer. “That’s a good place to start, I think. I won’t ever punish you for something you don’t know. If I don’t tell you what I expect, that’s on me, not on you, if you do something else.” 

“That’s fair.” D’Artagnan tips his cheek onto the back of the sofa, watching Athos’ face. “What else?” 

“I need to know what your limits are. A hard limit is a ‘never,’ a soft limit is a ‘maybe.’ It’s all right if you’re not sure of how you feel about things until you’ve tried them, and it’s all right to not want to try something at all. It’s your right to change your mind any time. If I give you something to try today and you like it, and I do it again a month from now and you don’t, I’ll throw it out. You just have to  _tell me_. And I have to listen. We trust each other, or this doesn’t work.” 

Athos pauses, and d’Artagnan waits until he realizes that Athos is expecting a response. 

“Ah. I don’t know. I don’t know anything,” he admits. “I just.” He looks down at his lap. “I’ve had sex with men, I’ve had sex with women, none of it was particularly creative, it was all pretty good? I like how you make me feel. I like how it felt when I pleased you. I like how it feels when you  _make_  me do…anything. I liked it when you punished me. I told you all that before. And you’d guessed it anyway. So I don’t. I don’t care _how_ , really.”

“All right,” Athos answers, his voice soft. “Let me tell you what I  _won’t_  do, then?” 

He looks at up Athos and nods. It all feels very weighty, all of a sudden, and he feels terribly young again, looking at Athos’ warm, tired eyes, the lines there, and the way the corners of his mouth droop under his beard. Sometimes. Sometimes Athos scares him to death. 

“I don’t hit,” Athos says after a moment. “I might give you a little tap with an open hand, to get your attention, but I don’t  _hit_. I will never strike you with anything, not for pleasure, not for punishment. If that is something you decide you want to try, we might negotiate it later, but not now. Acceptable?” 

“Yes.” 

D’Artagnan doesn’t know what’s on his face just then, but it makes Athos slide his hand up, rubbing warmly over his calf. 

“I don’t much care for gags and I prefer not to use them,” Athos continues. “There are plenty of people who do, and who use nonverbal signals in place of safewords, but I’m not comfortable with that.” 

“What if I get, you know. Loud.” D’Artagnan can feel his cheeks burning; it feels more than a little like he’s been blushing ever since Thursday night. 

“I don’t think gags have anything to do with noise,” Athos says, his expression clouding. “I think they’re about humiliation, and I don’t particularly enjoy handing that out. If you get loud, it’ll be because I want to hear it. If I want you to be quiet, you’ll be quiet because I told you to be.” 

D’Artagnan swallows. “Acceptable,” he husks. 

“Tonight I’d like to tie your hands at some point. Would that be all right?” 

Athos’ hand is still on his calf, and d’Artagnan feels the warmth and weight of it like an anchor. “That would be. Good.” 

“Good.” 

Athos studies him for a minute, and d’Artagnan can’t tell what he’s seeing, what he’s looking for; he can’t, for some reason, meet Athos’ gaze for very long right now, when usually it’s so easy. 

“One more thing, for now. I’m not going to ask you to come up with a safeword on the spot, you’ve already got a lot to think about, and that should be something you consider carefully. For now, you can say  _red_ to mean stop immediately,  _yellow_  to mean slow down. Every so often I might check in to make sure you’re all right.  _Green_ is the all clear.” 

“Green means go.” D’Artagnan nods, and finally looks back up from his lap. 

Athos is still gazing at him with warm curiosity, with what d’Artagnan wants to read as affection. Athos rubs d’Artagnan’s leg again, back down to his ankle, giving it a squeeze like he’d done before. 

“Sit here as long as you need to,” Athos says quietly. “Do whatever you feel all right doing. If you want to change your clothes or do anything else to get comfortable, go ahead. If you change your mind and want to go, that’s fine too. If you decide to stay, and you want to do this, then whenever you feel like you’re ready to get started, go on into the bedroom.” 

“What are you going to be doing?” 

It is affection; it must be, the way Athos’ eyes go just that little bit softer. “Cleaning up the kitchen,” he says, and stands. He leans in and presses a sweet kiss to d’Artagnan’s temple, then turns and leaves the room. 

D’Artagnan presses his cheek to the sofa back and closes his eyes. The material is cool, a little scratchy. He can hear Athos moving about; more distantly, sounds from the street. He thinks about his day, how he’d gone through his errands with no thought but getting back here tonight, getting Athos’ hands on him again. Finally, he’d taken a long shower and lay down in bed, hoping that he could pass the remaining hours with a nap. He’d dozed fitfully, caught in strange dreams he couldn’t remember, waking almost more tired than he’d started. 

He takes in deep, slow breaths through his nose, and thinks about the night before, how confident and calm Athos had been, how easy it was to let Athos take over, how amazing it had felt, every bit of it. 

I trust you, he thinks. He wants to hold Athos still and tell him, make him listen:  _I learned to trust you with my life, so why should my body be any different? Why shouldn’t I let you do anything you please?_

When he goes into Athos’ room a few minutes later, he strips down to his boxer-briefs, folds everything else and leaves it on the petite couch at the foot of the bed. There are fresh sheets, a pale blue that’s almost white, and a slate-colored duvet to match. He’s still standing there smiling at it when he hears movement behind him. 

“You have a housekeeper, don’t you?” he says, mock-accusing. “Like the secret patrician you are.” Athos huffs, and d’Artagnan feels hands coming to settle on his hips, feels a kiss on the back of one shoulder. 

“Don’t tell the others,” Athos murmurs, beard scraping against d’Artagnan’s skin in a way that raises goosebumps. “Her name is Lina, she comes every afternoon except Fridays.” 

“I should’ve guessed.” He tries to turn, but Athos holds him fast. 

“No,” Athos says, right up against d’Artagnan’s ear. “Tell me if you’re ready.” 

He shivers, and there’s no point in pretending it’s cold. “Green,” he says, as clear and steady as he can manage. “Ready.” 

“Mmm.” Athos kisses his shoulder again, and again, moving left toward his neck in infinitesimal increments. 

“Good. All right, here, off.” 

Athos pushes at the waist of d’Artagnan’s boxer-briefs and so d’Artagnan slips them off, easing them over his hardening cock and down his thighs before letting them fall to the floor. He feels Athos put a firm hand in the small of his back, and give him a little push forward, his knees bumping against the couch. 

“Kneel here on the sofa,” Athos instructs. “Eyes front. Hands on the footboard of the bed. I’m not going to tie you yet, you’re going to hold on there, and not let go. Understand?” 

“Yes.” D’Artagnan nods, and follows the instructions: the little sofa is firm under his knees; the wood is cool and smooth when he curls his hands around the top of the footboard. 

Athos touches his back, sweeping fingers down his spine and making d’Artagnan arch like a cat. He focuses on the wall above the bed, the abstractly violent black and white painting hanging there, on breathing slowly in and out. His stomach tightens as Athos moves his hands back to d’Artagnan’s hips, cheating around and across his abs, up his flanks to his chest. 

“You’re going to come every time I tell you to,” Athos says, his breath warm against d’Artagnan’s neck. He drags his palms roughly over d’Artagnan’s nipples, and d’Artagnan can’t help the jerk of his hips in response. He tightens his grip on the footboard. 

“Are you ready?” Athos asks again, letting go. D’Artagnan hears the floor creak when he takes a step back. 

“Green.” It comes out a little testy, and Athos makes an amused noise. 

There are more footsteps, the rustle of fabric, other sounds that d’Artagnan can’t identify. Then a sound he definitely knows: the snap of a bottle cap opening. He flexes his fingers. 

“Easy,” Athos murmurs. He passes a warm, dry hand over d’Artagnan’s belly, and d’Artagnan tightens up again, then melts into it when Athos fits himself to his back. 

They are molded together, Athos’ bare hot skin against d’Artagnan’s, Athos’ hard cock pressed tight against d’Artagnan’s ass. Sweat springs up between their bodies almost immediately, and d’Artagnan moans softly when Athos rocks against him, when Athos takes his cock in his slicked-up hand and gives it a long tight stroke. 

Athos keeps the other hand low on d’Artagnan’s belly, a grounding counterpoint to the near blinding pleasure of Athos’ rough strokes on his cock. He’s been on edge for hours, it takes almost no time before he’s gasping and shaking, before he’s hanging on to the footboard with his jaw clenched, trying so hard not to let go. 

“Good, so good,” Athos praises, his voice low and raspy. “Look how beautiful your cock is in my fist. Are you going to come for me?” 

“When. When you say,” d’Artagnan grits out. His knuckles are turning white on the footboard; he grinds back against Athos’ cock, and hears Athos’ sharp intake of breath. 

“You are so fucking gorgeous,” Athos goes on in a hiss. “Do it. Now. Come for me.” 

Without the couch and the bed to brace his weight, d’Artagnan would’ve staggered, as it is he has to drop his head and close his eyes not to just fall backward. He can feel his cock pulsing in Athos’ hand, can feel the heady rush of bliss washing over him. In his ear Athos is whispering filthy praise, _Look at you, you came so good for me, so easy for me, you’re such a slut for my hands, aren’t you? Love how you moan for it, so hot, you don’t even know you’re doing it. So good, so fucking good._

D’Artagnan’s sweaty palms slip on the footboard; he manages to hang on, mostly by force of will, and Athos lets out a pleased growl, gives d’Artagnan’s cock a couple more lingering strokes, and drops a kiss on the nape of d’Artagnan’s neck. 

“Athos,” he sighs. 

“You have five minutes,” Athos says, teeth scraping up the side of d’Artagnan’s neck. “Clean up and be back in this position before I call time.” He steps back and away. “Go.” 

D’Artagnan makes his way to the bathroom on wobbly legs; he thinks he loses a minute crossing the wide expanse of the floor. He finds washcloths and towels laid out, counts seconds in his head as he washes. There’s no time to think of anything but the clock, of Athos waiting, expecting obedience. 

“Thirty seconds,” Athos announces when d’Artagnan approaches the couch again, barely steady but at least clean and dry.             

He kneels up and puts his hands into place, focusing again on the painting. His eyes trace along the broad black strokes, following the slashes and sweeps. It’s soothing, he finds now. It had seemed so angry, but now it feels quiet and serene. 

“Time.” Athos leans in behind d’Artagnan, slips his arms around his waist and pulls him close. “Well done, darling. So well done.” His hands smooth over d’Artagnan’s body as he speaks, petting as gentle and warm as his praise. 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan whispers. 

Athos lays one hand along d’Artagnan’s face and turns it for a kiss, at first a light brush, then deeper, and hotter. His other hand comes up into d’Artagnan’s hair, twisting just hard enough to make d’Artagnan moan into the kiss. 

“Good,” Athos says when he pulls away. “Good. Remember. Eyes front, don’t let go. You come when I tell you to. Got it?” 

“Yes.” 

Athos taps d’Artagnan’s thigh, and gives it a gentle push. “Spread your legs a bit wider. There, and lean forward a bit. There. That’s right.” 

The adjustments leave d’Artagnan’s back slightly arched, his bottom pushed out a bit; it makes his stomach and his face feel hot. No one but Athos can see, but the lights are on and the sense of exposure is intense. He trembles when Athos runs warm hands up his thighs, over his ass and then down again. 

“Your body is glorious,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan startles slightly when he feels lips press into the small of his back, and then again lower, and again lower. 

The first touch of Athos’ tongue makes d’Artagnan hiss through his teeth; he tightens his hands on the footboard. Athos makes an amused noise as he licks, more firmly, still over the outside, holding d’Artagnan open with his thumbs. 

“Has anyone ever done this for you?” Athos asks, following up the question with a broad swipe of his tongue. 

“Ahh, no. No.” D’Artagnan bites down hard on his lip. 

“Good.” Athos sounds smug. “Very good.” 

It goes on for ages, after that. Sweat runs down d’Artagnan’s face and into his eyes, burning and blurring his vision with salt. His breath comes in ragged gasps, his fingers slipping on the wood where he’s trying desperately to hold on, not to push back into Athos’ tongue so hard that he falls off the fucking sofa. 

Everything splits into disparate sensations: Athos’ beard is somehow both scratchy and soft, and his tongue is hot and wet in d’Artagnan’s ass. The room is stifling; his cock is aching, untouched. He can feel each drop of sweat as it rolls down his spine, each stab and flicker of Athos’ tongue; he can hear his heart pounding like thunder. 

He sobs when Athos draws away, gasps when two slick fingers replace Athos’ mouth. 

“Now,” Athos says, twisting and curling his fingers, stroking firmly on just the right spot. “Come for me.” 

D’Artagnan does, choking on his own breath in the rush of pleasure. His knees buckle but he stays upright, mostly by locking his elbows and simply refusing to fall. He’s vaguely aware that he’s moaning Athos’ name, that he’s shaking and crying, but nothing seems to matter. It all feels right, as if this is what he is meant for, and any embarrassment he might’ve felt is buried under gratitude. 

“Thank you,” he whispers. 

He feels Athos’ other hand on his back, feels the odd sense of loss when Athos withdraws his fingers. 

“Stay where you are,” Athos says. “I’ll be just a moment.” 

When Athos returns it’s with warm, wet cloths and the scent of mouthwash on his breath; he wipes d’Artagnan down with gentle care, pressing random kisses to d’Artagnan’s overheated skin. He takes d’Artagnan’s hands from the footboard and washes them too, eases d’Artagnan down to sit on the couch and wipes down his legs, even his feet. 

“You were perfect,” Athos says as he does these things. “You’re amazing, you’re so good, you take it all so beautifully…” 

Athos doesn’t seem to be looking for a response so d’Artagnan just relaxes and enjoys the care, enjoys the aftershocks thrumming through his belly and his legs, and Athos’ strong, capable hands on his body. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, feeling somehow both light and heavy, like his veins are full of lead but also like a strong breeze would send him floating through the air like milkweed. 

“Up,” Athos says when he’s done, urging d’Artagnan up and into bed. D’Artagnan allows himself to be moved, to be arranged on his back in the center of the bed, two pillows under his head; he sighs when Athos pushes another pillow under his hips. 

“I was going to see if I could get another out of you,” Athos says, kneeling between d’Artagnan’s legs. His cock is thick and hard, shiny with precome at the tip, and d’Artagnan licks his lips at the sight of it. Athos quirks his own mouth in a filthy smile. “I think I could make you come all night, couldn’t I? Again and again. You’re young enough, I think you could. But you’ve been so good for me.” 

Athos reaches for something and d’Artagnan doesn’t quite track it at first, it’s just a dark mass in Athos’ hands. Then Athos holds it up, and d’Artagnan focuses: it’s a coil of black rope. 

“Are you still all right with this?” Athos says, eyes dark and serious. “It’s all right to say no.” 

“Green,” d’Artagnan sighs, and holds out his hands. 

Athos takes great care in tying d’Artagnan’s hands over his head; the rope is soft and smooth, almost silky around his wrists. Athos shows him how to get hold of the tail of the knot and pull it loose in case he needs to get free, makes him do it over twice to be sure that d’Artagnan has the trick of it. He rubs d’Artagnan’s arms, has him flex his fingers to be sure there’s no numbness, and d’Artagnan would be frustrated if it weren’t for how amazing it feels. 

Being the sole focus of Athos’ attention is intense enough, but being cared for by Athos is nearly dizzying. D’Artagnan sinks into it like pillows, reveling in the firm, sure touches, the soft, clear instructions, and the depth of fondness in Athos’ expression. He wants to be good for Athos, he wants to keep that look on Athos’ face, he wants to make Athos  _happy_. 

“Ready?” Athos checks one more time, his forefingers hooked under the bonds around d’Artagnan’s wrists. 

“Green,” he repeats, and tips his mouth up, lips parted. 

Athos leans down with a smile, kisses d’Artagnan deep and messy. Their hips come together, Athos’ cock hot against d’Artagnan’s belly, and he can’t help rocking up into it, using his bonds for leverage. 

“Christ,” Athos groans, pulling back. 

“Tell me what to do,” d’Artagnan says, biting his lip. He shakes his hair out of his eyes; it sticks to his sweaty forehead. 

“Knees up.” Athos’ voice is shaky. “All the way up. Then be still.” 

Holding the position makes his thighs and his abs burn, but it’s not long before Athos is pushing two fingers back into d’Artagnan’s ass, slick with lube. He’s getting hard again, he wasn’t even sure it was going to be possible, but the steady strokes of Athos’ fingers are doing it. The reverent look on Athos’ face is doing it. He pushes up into Athos’ hand. 

“Please,” he moans. 

“Please what?” Athos presses in another finger with a twist of his hand. 

“Ah, please, please, Athos—“ 

“Please  _what_?” 

“Fuck me, please, please, fuck me,” d’Artagnan sobs. He yanks hard on the rope; it barely gives. “Please.” 

“Yes, darling,” Athos purrs, “yes, I will, you’ve been so good.” 

The space between Athos withdrawing his hand and replacing it with his cock can only be seconds, two or three breaths, but it’s agony all the same. _Please, please, please,_ d’Artagnan chants in his head.  _Please, I need it._

“I know, baby, I know,” Athos soothes. “Shh.” 

D’Artagnan can’t keep in the soft cry at the feel of Athos working his cock inside, the overwhelming sense of welcome invasion. He jerks his hips, trying to force Athos deeper, but he’s in the wrong position, he can’t get any purchase. He sobs again. “Athos.” 

“Shh.” 

Athos fucks him hard and steady, the same way he’s done everything so far; not holding back but not rough, just deep, long strokes that make d’Artagnan grunt on each one. He presses d’Artagnan’s knees up, forces him to hold the position; his balls are aching, his cock hard again and throbbing. 

It just keeps going, Athos just keeps going, till they’re both dripping sweat and d’Artagnan’s belly is slick with the drip of his precome. His shoulders are aching from the way he can’t stop pulling on the rope, his hands clenched into burning fists. 

Finally Athos rocks back, shakes his hair out of his face, and puts his hand on d’Artagnan’s cock. “When do you come?” he asks hoarsely. 

“When. You say,” d’Artagnan gasps immediately. 

Athos shows his teeth, and gives d’Artagnan’s cock a firm stroke. “Now. Come now.” 

The orgasm is so intense that it’s nearly painful, like being hit with a great wave and only just clinging to shore. He’s distantly aware of his own voice crying out, of Athos’ final, broken shoves, his body shaking against d’Artagnan’s. 

It’s all flashes of images, of sense and sound. Athos pulling out with gentle apologies, leaning over to get rid of the condom. Strong hands releasing his arms, lowering his legs, warm kisses on his mouth, his cheeks, his hair. Cold glass of water pressed to his lips, the taste of it better than wine. Athos is everywhere, surrounding d’Artagnan with his touch, his kiss, murmuring praise in a quiet tone. 

Athos stretches out beside him, gathers d’Artagnan to his chest, cupping the back of his head, petting his damp hair. “Bath or sleep?” he offers. 

“Sleep,” d’Artagnan mumbles. He feels a blanket being drawn up over his back as he snuggles his face into Athos’ shoulder, wraps his arms tightly round Athos’ middle. He’s aware of nothing else till morning.

D’Artagnan sleeps in again. He wakes sometime after eight, wakes to Athos leaning in the doorway with a cup of coffee, watching. He stretches and rubs his eyes, yawns and reaches out, curling his fingers in invitation. 

Athos shakes his head, but crosses the room anyway; he puts his cup on the night table and leans down for a bitter-tasting kiss. D’Artagnan winds his fingers in Athos’ hair, tries to pull Athos back into bed, but Athos withdraws with a puff of laughter, tugging on d’Artagnan’s arm. 

So he goes where Athos leads, to a freshly drawn bath and his own cup of coffee, both steaming hot. Athos joins him in the water, sits behind him and makes a pillow of himself, lazily swiping at d’Artagnan’s skin with a soapy cloth while d’Artagnan dozes, his face turned into Athos’ neck. 

“See how nice a quiet morning can be?” Athos says after a while, after they’ve reheated the water twice, and d’Artagnan’s fingertips have begun to wrinkle. Athos kisses d’Artagnan’s ear. 

“This is a very persuasive demonstration,” d’Artagnan agrees.

 

They go shopping. Athos insists on honoring his promise to d’Artagnan, which was really less of a promise and more tacit, tangential approval, but Athos seems as adamant about the proceedings as he is confused by them. He allows d’Artagnan to paw through his kitchen, taking stock of what there is to work with in terms of supplies (wine, brandy, a half kilo of pistachios, an unopened—three years out of date—box of rye water crackers, and in the refrigerator, something close to a thousand takeout condiment sachets) and tools (one saucepan, one spatula, a complete set of Royal Limoges dinnerware, 19 pairs of chopsticks, and 47 plastic forks.) 

“You didn’t count the coffee cups,” Athos points out, leaning on the stove with one in hand. “There are four. I believe.” 

There are seven. Six are a set, and one is an oversized mug with a cartoon map of Texas on it. 

“Lina stopped buying me food,” Athos confesses some time later, when they’re at the greengrocer and d’Artagnan is inspecting artichokes. “She said it was depressing, and just made more work when she had to clean it all out a week later anyway.” 

“She sounds very sensible,” d’Artagnan says. He signals for the grocer. “Six of these please.” 

 

They take the groceries back to the flat and Athos allows himself to be dragged back out through a series of home goods shops, making dry asides about the uses of cookware that he doesn’t recognize, which is most of it, and scowling when d’Artagnan balks at the cost of some items on his list. 

“Look, just. Get the right things, all right. Get what you need.” Athos pulls out his wallet, and pushes a card into d’Artagnan’s hand. 

“You already paid for the food,” d’Artagnan argues, trying to give the card back. He thinks if he skips lunches out for a while, and possibly dinners full stop, he can manage a basic kitchen outfit that won’t involve disposables. 

“And now I’m paying for the rest,” Athos says, his brows drawing together. “It’s my kitchen, I’ll put in it what I please, and it pleases me that you should pick out the best… whatever this is.” 

“It’s a  _frying pan._ ” 

“I knew that,” Athos says, unconcerned. “Use the fucking credit card, I’m going to find a drink.” 

He comes back fifteen minutes later with two coffees, a hazelnut latte for d’Artagnan, an Americano for himself. D’Artagnan dares a kiss in thanks, and Athos grumbles to hide his smile.

It’s late afternoon by the time they’re done, when everything is delivered and d’Artagnan is satisfied. Lina has come and gone in their absence, and d’Artagnan blushes when he see the freshly-made bed. Athos retreats to the living room with his iPad, and d’Artagnan takes his new kit and makes  _poussin basquaise,_ chicken with artichokes, tomatoes and  _cèpes_. 

“I taught myself,” he tells Athos as they eat out of Athos’ ridiculously expensive bowls with Athos’ ridiculous collection of forks. “When I was younger. Magazines and TV, at first. Blogs, YouTube. I really love it.” 

“This is better than most restaurants I’ve eaten in,” Athos says seriously, ladling a second helping into his bowl, and d’Artagnan feels his face go hot. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, shrugging and popping a mushroom into his mouth. “I just, it’s fun. And someone had to. My dad is, was, a great farmer, but he couldn’t barely manage tinned soup or cold cereal without something going wrong. So… I learned.” 

“Mm,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan thinks that’s the end of it, that the subject is closed. 

A few hours later, Athos puts d’Artagnan on his knees at his feet where he sits in the old leather club chair by the windows. He has d’Artagnan rest his cheek on Athos’ thigh, and he pets d’Artagnan’s hair, scratches lightly at his scalp, and says, “You just want to help, don’t you? That’s what you need, to be useful, is that it? There was always more work when you were young, never enough hands, I bet you tried to do it all.” 

It stings a moment, to be read so clearly, but Athos strokes down the back of d’Artagnan’s neck and then up into his hair and he relaxes, lets his shoulders drop, lets Athos’ leg take his weight. 

“Yes,” he answers, his voice muffled against Athos’ thigh. “When Mama died. There were a couple of hired men but there was so much to do, and I was too little for a lot of the work…” He rubs his cheek against the soft material of Athos’ trouser leg. 

“It’s all right,” Athos soothes. “It’s all right. I have absolutely no doubt that you did everything you could. I’m sure your father knew you could be counted on.” 

“I tried,” d’Artagnan mumbles, and he hates, hates the hitch in his voice. 

Athos’ hand grows heavy on his neck, holding and massaging away the remaining tension there. “I know you did. I know.” He pauses, then tips d’Artagnan’s head up, holding his chin in his cupped palm. “Would you like it if I gave you something to do for me?” 

The breath escapes d’Artagnan’s lips in a long, shuddery sigh. “Yes, please.” 

He stays on his knees while Athos stands, while Athos holds the crown of his head and fucks his mouth. Athos’ cock feels huge and hot on his tongue, moving with steady, deep thrusts in the same way he’d fucked d’Artagnan’s ass last night. He gags and Athos doesn’t stop, he chokes and tears run down his face, spit runs down his chin, and it feels  _amazing_ , not least because the whole time Athos is heaping filthy praise on him. 

“Your mouth is so fucking beautiful,” Athos rumbles, “you’re so good at this, you make me feel so good, do you know how perfect you are? You take my cock like you were made for it, so perfect, open up for me, take it for me, gorgeous, can you take my come too? Mm?” 

He pulls d’Artagnan off by the hair, and d’Artagnan hears himself whine, leaning back in with his mouth still open. “Yes,” he gasps out. 

“Ask for it,” Athos orders, looking down on him with that imperious blue stare. 

“Please,” he begs. “Please, let me have it.” 

“Please let you have  _what_?” 

“Please come in my mouth, Athos, please.” He blinks up at Athos, licks his lips. “Please.” 

“Perfect,” Athos sighs. He keeps his fingers knotted in d’Artagnan’s hair as he guides his cock back into d’Artagnan’s mouth, not stopping until d’Artagnan coughs. He sets a rough pace; it’s not long before his cock is pulsing on d’Artagnan’s tongue, filling d’Artagnan’s mouth. 

It’s a struggle to swallow but he manages most of it; he pulls off and Athos lets him go, lets him fall to his hands and knees, gulping for air. 

He doesn’t hear Athos leave, only knows he must’ve done when Athos sits on the floor and pulls him into his arms, smoothing a warm washcloth over his cheeks, cleaning up the tears and spit and come. “Thank you,” 

Athos says in his ear, kissing his hair over and over. “Thank you.” 

He hides his face in Athos’ shoulder, overwhelmed. He thinks he should be the one saying thank you, gets the first syllable out before Athos frames his face between his hands and makes d’Artagnan look at him. 

“Let me take care of you,” Athos says, his eyes bright. He’s flushed, a few beads of sweat standing on his forehead. “This is for you.” 

Athos kisses him, carefully lowers them to the floor and cushions d’Artagnan’s head with one arm while he works d’Artagnan’s zipper down with his other hand. Athos doesn’t stop kissing him while he strokes d’Artagnan’s cock, doesn’t stop when d’Artagnan comes with a broken sob. It’s only a few minutes after, lying there on the hard floor, that Athos finally lifts his head, his own lips as red and bruised as d’Artagnan’s feel. 

“All right??” Athos asks. 

“Yeah,” he answers, barely even needing to think about it. “Yeah, I feel…” He hitches one shoulder. “I can’t describe it.” 

“I know.” Athos kisses his forehead. “Come on, let’s go get some sleep.”

 

In the morning d’Artagnan makes an omelet in silence while Athos works through his coffee and papers; he puts the plate in front of Athos and makes to leave the room, but Athos catches him by the wrist. 

“Knees,” Athos directs, and d’Artagnan fights the impulse to demand to know what he did wrong, even as his heart sinks with disappointment. But Athos surprises him again, taking a bit of hot, cheesy egg in his fingers and offering it. D’Artagnan opens his mouth, surprised at how natural it feels. 

Athos feeds him half the plate that way, in between bites for himself; when it’s done, Athos pats his leg and d’Artagnan sits there at his feet, sleepily being petted with his cheek on Athos’ knee. 

It’s only been two days but it feels like weeks, like the relationship he thought he’d had with Athos had only been a dream. He can remember what it was like to believe that Athos disliked him, to believe that Athos distrusted him, found him irritating and naïve—he can remember it like it was real, but he understands now that it wasn’t. 

They go out again and d’Artagnan picks out silverware and dishes that he’s not afraid to handle, and that can go in the dishwasher. They have lunch at the bistro around the corner from Athos’ flat, and he explains to Athos that yes, the silvery metal door in the cabinetry near the sink really is a dishwasher. Athos says he’s never seen Lina use it, and d’Artagnan can’t stop laughing. 

The afternoon shadows start to lengthen, and Athos puts d’Artagnan facedown in the middle of the bed with his wrists tied to his ankles. Athos fucks d’Artagnan with his fingers, all but fisting him, wringing three orgasms out of him before he finally puts his cock in and fucks him for real. D’Artagnan can’t quite come the fourth time but it still feels amazing, the sharp edge of sensation scraping along his nerves, the sweet soreness of his hole and the ache in his balls. Athos tells him how good and beautiful he is, how perfectly d’Artagnan satisfies him, and it’s enough, it’s more than enough. 

They eat cold leftovers in bed and d’Artagnan falls asleep early, exhausted and sated, holding on to Athos like a child’s stuffed toy. 

He wakes to Athos’ gentle shaking, to the sound of his name; he yawns and rubs his face on Athos’ chest, hair scraping his cheek. “Time is it?” 

“About eleven, you haven’t slept that long,” Athos says, sweeping d’Artagnan’s hair back and tucking the loose strands behind his ear. 

“Hmm.” D’Artagnan yawns again, and snuggles closer. 

“If you want to stay,” Athos says after a long moment, “you’ve got to go early. We can’t go into work together.” 

“S’fine,” d’Artagnan agrees. He plumps his lips against Athos’ skin. “Wake me up when’s time.” 

The next time d’Artagnan wakes, Athos’ phone is beeping from the nightstand and Athos is reaching to turn it off. He lifts his head, squinting blearily. “Mm?” 

“Six,” Athos murmurs, and shifts, leaning down to kiss him. 

The kiss goes on and on, every break is just a pause for breath before rejoining. Athos rolls them so he’s pinning d’Artagnan down, he’s hard and d’Artagnan is sleepily surprised to find himself getting there as well. 

They kiss and rock together, silent except for soft grunts and sighs. 

Athos fumbles on a condom one-handed, swipes a perfunctory dab of lube over d’Artagnan’s entrance and shoves in. He catches his breath only for Athos to pull back and do it again, and again; he opens his eyes and Athos is staring down at him, a softly focused look on his face as he watches d’Artagnan in turn. 

They kiss and they fuck; it doesn’t last more than twenty minutes before d’Artagnan is coming, bucking up against Athos, still sensitive from the night before. A few minutes longer and Athos is kissing d’Artagnan with a kind of desperation as he shudders out his own release. 

This is what d’Artagnan thinks about as he walks to the Métro a short while later, on the ride home, in the shower, on the trip in to the office. He thinks about Athos above him, inside him, the sweet longing in his kiss. Not the things they did together that could make him blush, not the things he confessed or the things Athos said. He thinks about Athos’ hands on his hips, and in his hair, and the drag of Athos’ teeth over his lip when they lay there, shaken, staring at each other in wonder.

 

It’s a paperwork day, writing up after-actions on the New York trip, reviewing locations for Madame’s Paris shows and thanking all the deities that she isn’t doing London or Milan this season. Athos may not be the team’s boss but he’s the only one with an actual office, and he’s in there with the door closed already when d’Artagnan arrives at TS just a few minutes before nine. 

Aramis and Porthos keep their desks pushed together, face to face like television cops; they’re hunched over Aramis’ desk, watching something on YouTube when d’Artagnan walks in. His own desk is in front and just to the side of Athos’ door, leading to a lot of secretary jokes and a constant sense of vague paranoia that Athos might be standing behind him when he’s doing something he shouldn’t be. 

He eases himself down into his chair, and buries himself in coffee and work. 

At ten-thirty d’Artagnan is still only a page into his report, and has started giving himself a headache from trying to watch Athos’ door out of the corner of his eye. It’s not that this is at all unusual behavior for Athos—it’s the opposite, it’s absolutely usual. He keeps trying to tamp down the disappointment, remembering all the things they did together, which in turn makes him shift and blush and squirm. 

“You’ve been awfully dreamy this morning, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says, getting up and rounding his desk to lean on the side of Porthos’. Porthos swivels in his chair, fixes his gaze on d’Artagnan as well. 

“Looks the same level of empty-headed as usual to me,” Porthos says with a wink. D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. 

“I’m fine,” he says. 

“No, no,” Aramis says, crossing his arms. “I know this look. Someone enjoyed their time off, eh?” 

D’Artagnan blushes, and Aramis crows. “You  _met someone_ , didn’t you?” 

“Leave the boy be,” Porthos says, elbowing Aramis, but d’Artagnan barely notices: Athos has chosen that moment to appear in the doorway, a stack of folders in his hands. 

"I knew a girl in Spain who used to make me look like that,” Aramis is saying with smug look. Porthos groans. "Yes, I've heard all about your girl in Spain. In detail. Repeatedly." 

"But the thing... with the…." 

_“Repeatedly,_ ” Porthos says again, giving Aramis a look that d’Artagnan can’t read. 

"Not, um, a girl," d’Artagnan manages, very carefully not looking at Athos. 

"Ahh, once I met this boy who—" Aramis says, without missing a beat. Porthos reaches up with one huge hand and cuffs him in the back of the head. 

“Gentlemen,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan stares hard at his keyboard, willing the blush to retreat with no success. 

“D’Artagnan was just about to tell us about his new companion,” Aramis says, leaning back. 

“You mean you were going to needle him until he broke,” Athos says dryly. “Leave d’Artagnan’s private affairs to him. Madame has scheduled a last minute photo shoot for tomorrow, and they have given us five possible locations. You all have reading to do.” He circles the room, dropping a packet of papers on each desk. “D’Artagnan, a word?” 

Athos closes the door behind them, and walks over to his windows, looking out on the sunny autumn day outside for a moment before turning back. 

“What were the rules about work?” he asks, and d’Artagnan feels his gut drop. 

“Athos—“ 

“What. Were the rules?” 

“Never on the job. Never interferes with the job.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or it’s over,” d’Artagnan breathes, and has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything more. To keep from protesting, _I didn’t do anything, I didn’t say anything, it’s not my_ fault _. It can’t be over, it just_ began _._

“You can’t let Aramis work you up like that,” Athos says, and it’s so not what d’Artagnan expected that the rush of relief makes his head spin. “You need to focus, and so does he – he already has. Well. Aramis doesn’t need more distraction. Don’t let him bait you.” 

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says, clasping his hands behind his back without thought, and Athos takes in a deep breath. 

“When we’re done for the day, you will have two hours to go home, and be back at my flat. Understood?” 

“Yes.” 

“Go do your reading. And Souza wants reports by four. He’s already pissed off that I let you all go three days after the job without turning them in. You can leave the door open when you leave.” 

D’Artagnan nods, knees weak with gratitude, and goes. 

Outside Porthos and Aramis haven’t moved, and they look up at d’Artagnan with concern. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, mate,” Porthos says, with a dark glance at Athos’ open door. 

“It’s nothing.” He settles carefully in his chair, and flips open the folder, the words swimming on the page as he tries not to count the hours till he’s on his knees again.

 

The first few weeks feel like they’re passing in a haze. D’Artagnan focuses as well as he can when he’s working, when he’s training; it’s not as difficult as he’d feared it would be. He can concentrate on getting through the day, one task at a time. But nearly every free evening, nearly every day off, finds d’Artagnan at Athos’ flat, and it’s amazing. 

It reminds him a bit of his affair with Constance, the hunger, always wanting more, always trying to find more time. Seeing each other whenever possible, kissing more than they talk. It’s like that, but the intensity that Athos brings to bed is like nothing d’Artagnan has ever experienced. 

Athos is single-minded when it comes to d’Artagnan’s body, he cannot be distracted, he cannot be diverted. He spends as much time on a seemingly random patch of skin as anyone else would on d’Artagnan’s nipples, or even his cock; Athos will return to that spot hours later, with his lips or his fingertips, and it’ll have become so sensitized that d’Artagnan can’t help but cry out. 

Athos likes d’Artagnan to be loud, sometimes, and sometimes he’ll draw his finger over d’Artagnan’s lips and explain that he is not to make a sound. The first time that he orders d’Artagnan to silence he ties d’Artagnan’s wrists behind his back and then fucks him like that – one hand holding him up, the other hand clamped firmly over d’Artagnan’s mouth. 

He fails, that night. He screams against Athos’ palm when he can’t take it anymore, when it becomes too much to hold in his mind, both being silent and not giving in to the desperate need to come. Athos doesn’t let go until after d’Artagnan has finished trembling through his orgasm; he strokes d’Artagnan’s face and tells him it’s all right, it’s fine. 

He pulls out then, kissing d’Artagnan’s neck. “I’ll be back in a moment,” he says softly. He leaves d’Artagnan there, cold and sticky, hands still tied. 

It can’t be as long as it feels, waiting for Athos to return. A few minutes? Five? Ten? He slumps over onto his side, facing the door; he could probably wriggle around enough to sit up. He _knows_ he could get hold of the tail of the knot and free his hands; it’s tied purposely so that he could if he needed to. He wasn’t explicitly ordered not to move, so he could rationalize it, he could. He closes his eyes, and he waits, and after what seems like an hour, he hears Athos’ light footsteps return to the room. 

Athos has put on clean pajama bottoms; his hair is damp around the sides, like he splashed water on his face. He looks disappointed, and d’Artagnan’s stomach tightens with misery. He wants to beg forgiveness, but Athos hasn’t told him that he can speak yet. He wonders how many mistakes it’ll take for Athos to send him home. 

“Up,” Athos murmurs, putting one knee on the bed and leaning over to help d’Artagnan to a seated position. He releases d’Artagnan’s hands and then sits beside him, rubs his wrists and his shoulders, the back of his neck. 

“Do you understand why I stopped?” Athos says at length, putting his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and pulling him close. 

D’Artagnan nods, pressing into the warmth of Athos’ side. 

“And would you like to explain what happened?” Athos asks. He doesn’t sound angry; instead his tone is gentle and patient, and somehow that’s worse. That despite his disappointment, Athos is being so calm and kind. 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says, a little sharper this time. He pulls back, and takes d’Artagnan’s chin in his hand, forcing d’Artagnan to meet his eyes. “Explain.”

“It’s just,” he starts, and has to stop, suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s so much. To keep in my head, all at once. What to do. What not to do, I—“ 

“Ah.” Athos moves his hand from d’Artagnan’s chin, turning it and brushing his knuckles up d’Artagnan’s cheek. He strokes over d’Artagnan’s hair. “I understand. It’s all right.” 

D’Artagnan pushes his head into Athos’ touch, kisses Athos’ wrist. “I can try again? Soon?”

“Mm, no, not tonight.” Athos gives him a soft smile. “Tonight you’re going to go wash up, put some clothes on, and come to bed. No negotiation,” he adds when d’Artagnan opens his mouth to protest. “Take as long as you want, but come back clean and clothed.” 

This is his punishment, d’Artagnan thinks as he stands in the shower, letting the water run down over his bowed head. This is what he gets – or more to the point, what he _doesn’t_ get – because he fucked up. Because he couldn’t do two simple, stupid things. 

By the time he returns to the bedroom he’s feeling worse than when he left it, unable to let go of the voice in his head that keeps repeating how stupid his mistakes were, how pointless. If he’d only tried harder, concentrated harder. He wants so badly to be good for Athos, but he can’t even follow the most basic instructions.  

Athos is sitting in bed, reading his iPad. He looks up when d’Artagnan enters, and frowns. “What good,” he says softly, “is my promise not to hurt you, if you’re just going to go and do it to yourself?”

“I’m not,” d’Artagnan protests, but Athos shakes his head, and puts his tablet aside before beckoning d’Artagnan closer. 

“Come here,” he says, holding out his hand; when d’Artagnan moves within reach, he takes him by the wrist and pulls him into bed, into his arms. 

D’Artagnan folds against Athos’ side, shoving his face into Athos’ chest, into the hollow of his shoulder. He shakes a little when Athos kisses his hair, when Athos rubs his back and says, “You are not in trouble. You are not being punished. You need a break.”

“I can do it,” he mumbles into Athos t-shirt. 

“I know you can, darling, I know,” Athos soothes. “Right now, though, you need to sleep. Just sleep.” 

Even with Athos holding him, even with Athos’ steady heartbeat under his ear, it takes d’Artagnan a long time to rest. 

Athos has d’Artagnan stay for breakfast in the morning; they eat quietly, while Athos goes through his newspapers, and d’Artagnan tries to think of some way to apologize for the night before. He’s just about to say something when Athos glances at the clock and swears. 

“I forgot, I have a meeting,” he says, throwing back the last of his coffee. “Lock up when you leave, all right? Be back here at six.” 

“Six?” d’Artagnan echoes stupidly. That’s far earlier than Athos usually asks him to come. 

“Mm, you’re done at five today. And I’ll be done as early as I can.” Athos stands, and grabs up his phone with one hand; with the other, he takes d’Artagnan by the chin and kisses him soundly. “Six.” 

That evening they arrive at the building at the same time; once inside the stairwell, Athos pulls d’Artagnan close and kisses his cheek, his temple, his ear, before tugging him up the steps to the flat. They dump their things in the entryway, kicking off shoes and peeling away coats. Athos isn’t speaking, so d’Artagnan stays quiet as well. 

“Go get in the shower,” Athos says finally, looking at d’Artagnan with a warm expression. “The big shower in my bathroom, I’ll join you in a minute.” 

The big shower is an enormous glass cubicle that easily holds them both; d’Artagnan has received a couple of memorable blowjobs in it, and if that’s where this night is headed, he’s fairly certain he can handle it. 

He is not disappointed, exactly, when all that happens under the steamy spray is kissing and washing, and a little groping disguised as washing. It’s good, it feels good, he’s just unsure of what’s next. When Athos is satisfied, he bundles d’Artagnan out of the shower and into a soft towel, standing dripping on the mat while he dries d’Artagnan off. 

“I’d like it,” Athos says, scrubbing a second towel over d’Artagnan’s head and making him sputter. “If you would try something new for me.” 

D’Artagnan breathes in, a long deep breath full of the smell of Athos’ shaving soap, the laundry conditioner that Lina uses, the warm clean scents of their skin. He nods, butting his head into Athos’ hands. 

“Something different from last night?” he asks cautiously. 

“Mm.” Athos switches the towel to his own hair, and gives it a quick rubdown. “Let me show you.” 

The problem, Athos explains as he leads the way back into the bedroom, is that d’Artagnan is trying to think instead of just letting go. 

“This is not an intellectual exercise,” he says, giving d’Artagnan a little push toward the couch. “Sit. You do well when you’re not thinking. When you’re not _trying_ so hard, you slip into the headspace so easily.” He pauses, and gives d’Artagnan an almost shy smile. “It’s beautiful. When you relax, you just _go.”_

“But.” D’Artagnan frowns, thinking of the night before. 

“That face, right there.” Athos touches d’Artagnan between the eyes. “I don’t want to see that face when I’m fucking you.” 

He can’t help smiling; when Athos is warm and playful like this, it just makes his heart seize up with happiness. He tips his head back, and kisses the tip of Athos’ finger. 

“Much better,” Athos murmurs. “So. Here is what I propose.” 

It’s a small loop of black silicone with three snaps embedded in it: an adjustable cock ring. Just looking at it makes d’Artagnan’s face feel like it’s on fire. He’s heard of them, but he’s never even seen one, much less used one. It was the sort of thing that had been filed in his head under _Perverts Only._ Something of that thought must show in his expression, because Athos quirks the corner of his mouth. 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says, sinking to his knees between d’Artagnan’s legs. “Men use them for a lot of different reasons. You… need to be able not worry about anything when we’re together. You need to be able to not be thinking _don’t come, don’t come_. This takes care of that.”

D’Artagnan nods, looking down at Athos. Athos rubs d’Artagnan’s thighs, leans in and presses a kiss to the still-damp skin of d’Artagnan’s hip. He kisses lower, closer, nips at the tendon high inside d’Artagnan’s leg. D’Artagnan feels his cock hardening as Athos’ warm breath puffs over it. 

“I’ll try it,” he husks, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. “Please.” 

“Tell me.”  Athos lips are brushing the head of d’Artagnan’s cock when he speaks. 

“Oh. Mmm green. Please, green?” 

Athos makes a soft noise of approval before taking d’Artagnan in his mouth; he’s not fully hard yet but the slick heat of Athos’ mouth feels so good. He melts against the cushiony back of the couch, letting one hand come lightly down on Athos’ shoulder. Athos is being more gentle than usual, almost teasing. With his eyes closed, d’Artagnan almost doesn’t notice when Athos snaps the ring around the base of his cock. 

It feels odd but good, a bit like the firm grip of fingers, except over a narrower area, and the pressure is more even. Athos pulls off, lifting his head and testing the fit of the ring with a gentle tug. It moves a little, but not more than a few millimeters, and Athos makes a satisfied noise. 

“Ready to get started?” he asks, and d’Artagnan blinks. 

“That wasn’t getting started?”

“Up on your knees, face the bed,” Athos says by way of answer, patting d’Artagnan on the thigh. “Tell me when you’re ready.” 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be ready _for_ ,” he complains, but he does as he’s told, taking his usual position kneeling on the couch. Athos’ instructions are usually so much more specific. 

“Ready to stop thinking.” Athos gets to his feet, and moves to stand in behind d’Artagnan, touching his fingertips to d’Artagnan’s hips. “Ready to let go.” 

“I want to,” he sighs, leaning back into Athos’ body, tipping his head back onto Athos’ shoulder. His cock is hardening pleasantly, the ring feeling tighter as it does. Athos’ hands slide over d’Artagnan’s stomach, up across his abs, drag slowly over his nipples. 

“You’re not going to come,” Athos says in his ear, and the warm rasp of his voice makes d’Artagnan’s cock give a delicious throb. “You can’t, not easily. You don’t have to stop yourself, the ring will do it, so you don’t have to think about it. Just feel.” 

Athos underlines the last two words by rubbing his thumbs roughly over d’Artagnan’s nipples, and d’Artagnan gasps. Athos does it again, and makes an amused noise at the way d’Artagnan shudders. 

“Imagine your brain is a piece of cloth.” Athos drops one hand to d’Artagnan’s cock, closing around him warm and tight, just holding a moment before beginning to slowly stroke. “Like a sheet, laid out on the bed. Fold it up. Fold it in half, and in half again. Keep folding it until it’s a smooth little square. And then, you put it away. You put it in a safe place until you need it again.”

It works. The ring takes care of the physical, and the sheet takes care of the mental, leaving nothing but a pleasure that d’Artagnan will, afterward, be unable to describe. He slips under like a stone, every part of him secure in Athos’ hands. When, in the end, Athos unsnaps the ring and whispers, _Come for me_ , it feels to d’Artagnan like he simply dissolves in bliss. 

Like anything worth doing, Athos tells him later, it takes practice. It gets easier; before long d’Artagnan doesn’t need the ring at all, and using it becomes a treat instead of a necessity. Athos gives him other things to try; neither of them is into toys or _stuff_ , and Athos adamantly refuses to use hard restraints, but that still leaves all the variation that Athos can come up with.

Athos doesn’t call it training, but that’s what it is; d’Artagnan was in the military more than long enough to know it when he sees it, when he’s doing it. Repetition and feedback; he gets rewards when he does well, he loses privileges when he doesn’t. Having to kneel re-clothed and alone in the living room, listening to the kitchen timer tick away his punishment, is the most common. He has to sleep on the floor a few times, usually when he’s argued with Athos’ instructions, when his questions have been answered but he’s still trying to negotiate. 

Once, and only once, when d’Artagnan was feeling particularly rebellious, Athos threatened to send him home. “You wouldn’t,” d’Artagnan laughed, and Athos’ face had gone blank before he went to his phone and called d’Artagnan a taxi. 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to question me,” Athos tells him the next evening, holding d’Artagnan in his arms on the sofa, petting his hair and hushing d’Artagnan’s apologies. “If you feel unsafe, if you feel confused about what’s expected, question me. Call yellow, call red, we’ll stop and talk until you feel all right. It’s when you argue because you just don’t want to obey. It’s when you balk because you’re scared, but instead of calling the yellow, you get bratty.” Athos kisses d’Artagnan’s brow. “And above all, you have to tell me if you want to stop. Promise me you’ll tell me if you want to stop.” 

“I promise? But I never want to stop,” d’Artagnan says, tipping his face up to meet Athos’ eyes. Athos nods slowly, and then leans back down to hide his face in d’Artagnan’s hair. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

It’s the middle of November when Constance catches him. Work has been relatively calm, with few surprises. He wouldn’t turn down the overtime, if it was available, but he also loves the routine of a simple schedule, of knowing what to expect. It’s been nearly two months with Athos, and he spends the night often. He has a section in Athos’ closet and a drawer in Athos’ armoire. He has claimed the ugly Texas mug for his own.

Lina likes him, and Athos claims this is unprecedented; she doesn’t, he says, even like  _him_. She fills the kitchen with fresh food each week, and d’Artagnan loves figuring out what to do with it, loves cooking for Athos, who in turn shows his appreciation in any number of creative ways. They have another conversation about safewords and d’Artagnan says he likes the color system, likes the simplicity of it. When Athos asks if there is anything d’Artagnan wants to negotiate, he can’t think of a single thing. 

Athos claims he doesn’t care if their friends know, but he’s also never volunteered any information to either of them; when working he’s the same as he’s always been, tightly focused, sometimes wryly amused, never less than professional. D’Artagnan follows his lead, endures the ribbing from the others about his mystery man, and tries not to take it too poorly.

A few times now Athos has taken d’Artagnan aside before the end of shift and explained in gentle tones that he’s not feeling up to anything tonight, no, it’s nothing d’Artagnan did, he’ll see d’Artagnan in the morning. And those mornings are the worst, watching Athos arrive precisely on time, not a hair out of place, coffee in hand and a familiar pinched look around his eyes. D’Artagnan knows that by the time he gets to the flat, eight or ten hours later, Lina will have already cleaned up the bottles and the broken glass, mopped the floor and taken out the laundry. There’ll be no evidence left except a faint smell of disinfectant, and the renewed fervor with which Athos worships d’Artagnan’s body.

But most nights are good nights, and most mornings are good mornings. It’s about seven, this particular morning, and d’Artagnan is in the previous day’s suit, tie rolled up in his pocket, sleeves pulled down over the fading rope marks on his wrists. He’s unpacking the week’s worth of mail that is jammed into his box in the lobby of his building, and doesn’t even look up when he hears the lift doors open.

“Oh!” Constance says, and that makes him look.

She’s wearing a sharp outfit with even sharper heels, dress and coat and hat for the cold, drizzly weather. She looks good. She always looks good, he thinks with a distant pang.

“Hi,” he says, smiling at her.

“I wasn’t sure you even lived here anymore,” she says, putting her hand to her hip. “It’s been weeks since—oh. You’re not on your way out, are you?” Constance peers at him in the dim lobby light. “You’re just getting in.”

In the time it takes him to decide whether or not to lie, she’s pieced it together. She looks him up and down again, really  _looks_ , and her shoulders drop. “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?” she asks, her voice gone soft and quiet.

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan gives up on the mailbox, clicks it shut and crosses the lobby to catch Constance’s hand. “Yeah, I’m. It’s really good.”

Constance’s smile is thin, but sincere, and she squeezes his fingers. “Well, go on, then. What’s she like?”

“He,” he corrects, watching for her reaction. “He is… amazing.”

“He,” she repeats. “Oh, d’Artagnan. You do keep me guessing.”

The fondness in her voice comes as such a massive relief that he feels almost faint. He brings her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. “I’m sorry,” he says against her pale knuckles.

“Don’t be stupid,” she says, freeing her hand and glancing at her watch. “We all did the best we could, didn’t we? I’m sorry, I do have to go, I want to talk to you but I have to go. I have an interview at 8 and I can’t be late.”

“Interview?”

This smile is far more brittle. “Oh, you know. Jacques was passed over for promotion again, and things are a bit. You know. So I’m looking for something. Anything, really.”

It is a coincidence, surely; a strange one, but a coincidence just the same, that he should run into Constance after weeks of unintentional estrangement, when only yesterday they’d gotten notice of a staff change: Madame’s longtime assistant, Sofia, was marrying a footballer and moving to Madrid. Anne herself was panicking, trying to find someone as reliable as Sofia on such short notice—she was due to spend two weeks in Thailand for a yoga retreat, and was worried that she would have to deal with everything on her own.

“Constance,” d’Artagnan says, beaming. “I have an idea.”

She shakes her head. “Oh, shit.”

  

It’s just after two in the afternoon when Athos calls d’Artagnan; he and Porthos are sitting in a pricey café, a discreet distance from Louis Bourbon, Armand du Plessis, and the Italian investors they’re having lunch with. The wine and martinis have been flowing freely, and Louis’ laugh is getting to that particular pitch that d’Artagnan has come to recognize as a sign that they will probably have to physically put him in the car at the end of the meal.

“D’Artagnan,” he answers, tapping his earpiece.

“Why,” Athos says, not bothering with greetings, “am I running a background check on your ex-girlfriend?”

“Why are you running background checks at all?” D’Artagnan says pleasantly. “You’re a senior security officer.”

“And you’re a junior agent who’ll be sleeping on the floor tonight,” Athos says in a low voice, “unless he answers the fucking question.”

He sighs. “I ran into her this morning, she said she was looking for a job. Madame has been upset about Sofia leaving, you know that, and she said yesterday she wanted someone new in place before we leave for Phuket. So I thought, why not introduce them? Solve both their problems?”

There’s silence on the line for a moment, and Porthos slants a curious glance at him. D’Artagnan makes a dismissive gesture, and Porthos shrugs.

“They’re best friends already, apparently,” Athos says at last, sounding marginally less furious. “Madame rang Tréville personally and asked for the clearance to be pushed through. As if Tréville has run a clearance in twenty years,” he adds with a huff. 

“All I did was call Sofia and tell her I had someone for Madame to meet. That’s it. There wasn’t even any guarantee she’d get past Sofia’s interview, much less that Madame would hire her, it wasn’t…” He shoots a look at Porthos, who is definitely listening, even if he doesn’t show it. “Anything,” he finishes. “It  _isn’t_  anything, all right?”

“Very well,” Athos says, clipped. “I’ll expect you at the flat at eight tonight.” The line goes dead.

“Madame has a new assistant?” Porthos inquires, never taking his eyes off the men at the table.

“Constance,” d’Artagnan confirms with a sigh. “I set it up, and Athos doesn’t like it.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Porthos says, as if it should be obvious. “When she dumped you, you and him both nearly got killed, remember?”

“That had nothing to do with Constance,” d’Artagnan says, frowning. The waiter is pouring more wine for Louis, and du Plessis is stopping him with a hand on his elbow. They’ll be going soon.

“You can’t deny it was a precipitating factor,” Porthos says, quirking one eyebrow. “You do stupid shit when you’re hurt, have you forgotten how we all met? I imagine Athos would prefer to spare himself the paperwork if you were to get hurt again.”

“It’s not like that. She and I are friends, and I.” He stops, flexing his fingers on the tabletop for a moment. “I care very much for the person I’m with now.”

“I imagine,” Porthos drawls, “Athos would be pleased to hear that.”

The whole world slows down like they’re in the Matrix. D’Artagnan watches the drops of condensation from the sides of Porthos’ glass hitting the table like bombs as he tips it to his mouth, the sound of the rickety fan overhead suddenly deafening, like helicopter blades. D’Artagnan can feel the pound of his heart in his fingertips.

“How long have you known?” he asks weakly.

Porthos gives him a crooked grin. “Not that first morning, when you were walking like John Wayne and he was acting like the whole world had personally insulted his mother; the latter, at least, was normal. But by the end of the first week. You do this thing, when you look at each other… that was new. And obvious, at least to Aramis and me.”

The emphasis Porthos puts on those last words,  _Aramis and me_ , is unmistakable: he is trading confidence for confidence, and d’Artagnan finds the noise of the world flooding back in with his gratitude.

“And you—?” he prompts.

“I what?” Porthos nods at the table, where du Plessis is signing the bill, and Louis is trying to stand, with mixed success. “We’re moving.” He pushes back from the table, and d’Artagnan follows.

 

“You’re late,” Athos informs d’Artagnan when he opens the door that night. D’Artagnan frowns; he doesn’t think he is, but one look at Athos’ face makes him clench his teeth and not question it. He bows his head, and waits for the consequences.

It’s far and away the most humiliating punishment that Athos has ever given him; it’s the most humiliating thing that Athos has ever asked him to do, full stop. He’s not sure why he doesn’t refuse. Athos leaves d’Artagnan kneeling in the living room for an hour before dinner, at which point he’s expected to present himself by Athos’ chair within five minutes; as soon as the timer rings the first time, he hears it being reset. His limbs are all pins and needles so he has to crawl in order to make it; then he’s made to wait until Athos finishes before eating himself. At that point, he’s allowed a chair.

D’Artagnan sits at the table, still shaking the blood back into his legs, staring at the plate; Athos is sat across from him, reading a folder and drinking a glass of burgundy. He feels his temper flare.

“Are you  _working_?” he asks, incredulous.

Athos looks up, face impassive. “You might recall that we are, along with a number of other people, some of whose lives we are paid to preserve, taking a thirty-hour trip across the world in less than three days. The logistics are a nightmare. Yes, I am  _working_.”

D’Artagnan counts to ten, but it’s too late, the words are already crowding up and out of his throat, burning like lava. “The first boy I ever fucked was named Léon. He was from the farm over the hill in Lupiac. Tall, built, blond. These massive arms.”

“And you bring this up because…?” Athos sets his folder down, regarding d’Artagnan through narrowed eyes.

“I got an email from him two weeks ago, he’s just moved to Paris and wants to meet up for a drink. I haven’t scheduled it yet, haven’t had the time, but I thought you should probably know, so you can punish me for something else I haven’t done.”

Athos sits back hard; his chair scrapes the tile with a screech. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

“You made me  _crawl_ ,” d’Artagnan snaps. “If this is supposed to show me how much better I have it with you, you’re doing a fucking shitty job.”

Athos’ eyes close for a moment, his throat rippling as he swallows. When he opens them again, he looks miserable in a way d’Artagnan hasn’t seen in months. 

“You’re right,” he says simply. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I—.” He shakes his head, throws back the rest of his drink. “I’ve broken our agreement. You’re free to go, of course.”

That makes d’Artagnan so angry that his vision blurs; he misses Athos getting up from the table, has to catch up with him in the living room. He grabs Athos’ elbow and spins him around.

“This is not a breakup, you fucking idiot,” d’Artagnan says, nearly shouting. “This is a fight. People fight, all right? It’s not. I’m not leaving, for god’s sake. Not for Constance, not for anyone else, not even because you’re a  _fucking idiot._ ”

“You said that twice, I got it the first time,” Athos says, faintly testy, and d’Artagnan would rather that a thousand times than that hollowed-out look from before. “And I was already aware that I am a fucking idiot.”

D’Artagnan sighs, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Athos. I’ll happily beg you for a lot of things, but I don’t think I should have to beg you to trust me.”

“I’m sorry,” Athos says again, stepping into d’Artagnan’s space, his shoulders dropped. “I didn’t even think,” he murmurs, “it wasn’t even conscious. And that’s what scares me. I was angry, and I chose to hurt you without even thinking that’s what it was, because of—”

“So talk to me.” D’Artagnan closes the rest of the distance, bumps his forehead against Athos’. All the anger has fled, leaving him feeling nothing but exhausted. “Just talk to me. Isn’t that what you made me promise? To always talk to you?”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Sometimes Athos allows this, allows this shocking vulnerability to show, and it makes d’Artagnan ache, makes his heart hurt for all the things he doesn’t know, all the things that Athos doesn’t talk about. D’Artagnan closes the small distance and kisses him, winds his arms around Athos’ neck.

Athos sighs, cups the back of d’Artagnan’s head with one hand as he pulls back from the kiss. “I don’t know what to do next,” he confesses. “I don’t know how to fix this.” 

It’s a startling admission, and d’Artagnan feels an involuntary shiver. Athos always begins, always gives the first order, leaving it to d’Artagnan to decide whether to accept, deny, or negotiate. Athos always leads their play, their sex. While d’Artagnan has become more and more free with his kisses, his touches, it’s only when they’re off. He never starts anything. He supposes, thinking on it now, he hadn’t thought it was his place. He supposes he thought he didn’t have the power to ask.  

“Do what you promised,” he says, brushing his lips against Athos’ ear. “Take care of me. Let me be good for you. I will, Athos, I will be so good for you.”

Athos nods, and closes his hands on d’Artagnan’s wrists. “It’s been a long day,” he says softly. “You should probably eat something.” 

 

Athos is right about one thing – the preparations for the Thailand trip are a clusterfuck, and they get worse before they’re through. Twenty-four hours out from wheels-up, Louis announces that he’s not going, that he has better things to do sit around sweating for a fortnight while his wife messes about with her stretching. He then goes on a lengthy and not a little bit racist rant at Souza about the risks of kidnapping in Southeast Asia, which culminates in Louis ordering that the whole team scheduled for the trip remain on Madame, rather than just two.

Clèment and Athos have to scramble to reschedule the entire Close staff now that Louis is remaining in Paris. Athos doesn’t sleep, barely eats; by the time they board the plane at DeGaulle the next evening, he’s a strung out mess of nerves. He looks fine, but d’Artagnan has learned what the slightly shaky hands, the red-rimmed eyes mean. 

“Here’s the deal,” he says to Athos in an undertone as they settle into their seats. “You’re going to have some juice, some crackers, and a Stilnox. Porthos and Aramis are going to stay awake and cover things until we change in Dubai.  _You_  are going to sleep.”

The look Athos gives him is openly grateful, even as he mutters, “I don’t take orders. I give them.”

“Not tonight you don’t,” d’Artagnan answers cheerfully.

They land in Dubai at six am local time, time enough for Athos to have gotten six solid hours of sleep. The next leg is another nearly seven-hour flight, and when Athos nods off again at the start, d’Artagnan doesn’t wake him. He and Porthos stay up until Aramis wakes, then Aramis takes watch while d’Artagnan and Porthos nap.

He comes alert at the sound of the announcement that they will be landing soon, opens his eyes to see that Aramis is leaning across the aisle, telling Athos to get over it.

“So you can be on call first at the hotel,” Aramis is saying, “if you feel so bad about it. But don’t blame him, you were exhausted and no good to anybody.”

D’Artagnan yawns dramatically rather than hear Athos’ answer. “Hey,” he says. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing,” Athos says grouchily. “I hope you enjoyed your nap.” Out of sight, he gives d’Artagnan’s thigh a gentle squeeze.

Madame has taken rooms at a resort hotel instead of at the retreat center itself; the center was unable to accommodate her staff, but this way is better for security. Anne’s room is bookended by the rooms reserved for the two teams; Aramis and Porthos take the north side, and Athos and d’Artagnan the south. Constance has her own room across the hall, and seems bowled over by the accommodations.

“It’s not special,” d’Artagnan says, when she checks with him to make sure there hasn’t been a mistake. “I mean, you’re in the room that was reserved for Sofia, and she always had her own room, as far as I know. Not that you’ll spend a lot of time in it – Madame takes her yoga pretty seriously, so you’ll mostly be sitting around out at the retreat center, in case she needs something.”

“This is the weirdest job I’ve ever had,” Constance says flatly, just as her phone chimes. “And there you are, the lady beckons. Right, see you later!”

Athos chooses to come out of the bathroom just as Constance is leaving; he somehow manages to pull a face without actually changing his expression. “What did Madame Bonacieux want?” he asks, his voice neutral.

“Don’t start,” d’Artagnan says, pointing at him. “Let it go. We’re on call first, and I refuse to sit up all night with you glowering.”

“You should sleep,” Athos says after an unreadable pause. “It’s midnight and now you’re the one who’s been up for two days. I’ll wake you if we’re needed.”

“Mmmmright.” D’Artagnan stretches and shrugs out of his suit jacket, then loosens his tie. “Which bed?”

Athos shrugs, settling into a chair by the balcony doors. “I don’t care, I’ll take whichever you don’t want.”

D’Artagnan freezes, his belt open, fingers on his zip. “Are we not…? I. Thought we’d. Share,” he finishes.

“We’re working,” Athos reminds him.

“So are Porthos and Aramis, and you know they’re… sharing.”

Athos tilts his head. “They told you?”

“Porthos did.” Not in so many words, but close enough. D’Artagnan rebuckles his belt, and crosses his arms over his chest. “And they know about us.”

“Of course they do, neither of them are idiots.” Athos makes a dismissive gesture. “I’d have had both of them fired if they couldn’t have worked it out within a week.”

“So when you said you didn’t care if they knew… you already knew, that they knew?”

“If I understand that mess of syntax correctly, yes,” Athos says, blinking. “It was your choice, it has always been your choice, to discuss this or not. When I said I didn’t care if they knew, I meant exactly that.”

“God, I can’t understand you sometimes,” d’Artagnan groans, staring at the ceiling for strength, hoping answers will appear written in the artfully swirled plaster. He’s surprised when he feels hands on his hips, knocks his chin into Athos’ when he brings his head back down.

“I’m really very simple,” Athos says, pressing a soft kiss to d’Artagnan’s temple. “I don’t care, I literally do not care, who knows that I’m fucking you. It’s still our business, and only our business, no matter if the whole world knows.”

“All right,” d’Artagnan whispers, chasing Athos’ mouth, but Athos ducks the kiss, tightening his hands on d’Artagnan’s hips.

“But while we’re working, we can’t be distracted by this. You  _know_ that. It shouldn’t be a surprise.”

D’Artagnan draws in a deep breath through his nose, and lets it out slowly. “So what makes Porthos and Aramis different?”

“Aside from everything? That they’re not us?” Athos shakes his head. “I don’t presume to tell them what they can do with their free time, or their private lives. If it hurts the work, if it affects their ability to do their jobs, I’ll get involved. Not before.”

Weeks ago, Athos had told d’Artagnan that Aramis didn’t need any more distractions; he’d wondered at the time what that meant. Now, judging from the dark look that Athos slants toward the other rooms, he wonders how close Athos is to needing to get involved.

“Go to bed,” Athos is saying, and now he catches d’Artagnan’s mouth for a proper kiss, one that makes d’Artagnan whine when it ends. “Go to bed, and if you want to talk more in the morning, we will, all right?”

“All right.” D’Artagnan steps back and away from temptation and finishes undressing, leaving just his briefs on. He stretches out on the bed nearest Athos’ chair, hears Athos’ huff of a chuckle when he rolls onto his belly and stretches again, but he doesn’t have time to tease any further: he’s asleep almost instantly.

He wakes hot and sweaty, dry-mouthed and headachy; he fumbles for a bottle of water that he forgot to leave out, and his fingers find only his phone, his watch, the room service menu.

“Here,” Athos says, sitting on the side of the bed. It dips under his weight. He presses a cold bottle into d’Artagnan’s hand. “Careful, it’s open.”

D’Artagnan mumbles his thanks, drinking deeply before propping himself on one elbow and putting the bottle on the nightstand. At some point, Athos had tucked him under the light covers, had opened the balcony doors to let the breeze in. He can hear rain falling outside, and he stretches extravagantly before getting up and padding to the bathroom.

When he returns, Athos is in his bed. Shirtless, the covers rolled to his waist; he lies on his back with his arm over his eyes, breathing shallowly. D’Artagnan stops in the middle of the floor, staring.

“As of twenty minutes ago,” Athos says without lifting his arm, “we are off duty. Get over here before I change my mind.”

They fuck like this sometimes, just fuck, with no rules; Athos obviously loves it, but he rarely seeks it. It’s always a bit raw, a bit too honest, d’Artagnan thinks. It would be easy to say things you didn’t mean to. So d’Artagnan rides him slow and steady, one hand on Athos’ chest, one on his own cock. Athos’ fingers dig into d’Artagnan’s hips, his head thrown back, teeth set into his lip; he makes a soft, pained noise every time d’Artagnan rises and falls. 

Afterward, Athos presses up behind d’Artagnan, a possessive arm around his chest, nose in the hair at his nape. It’s far too hot and they’re far too sticky to stay like that, so of course that’s how they fall asleep.

It is, like most of the job, a lot of sitting and waiting, even if it is sitting and waiting in a place that’s exquisitely beautiful. D’Artagnan makes his way through two novels on his iPad in the course of the first week, loses an epic Words With Friends game to Porthos, and learns that it’s entirely possible to become numb to rooms full of slick, attractive bodies twisted into improbable positions.

Saturday, their agenda informs them, is rest day – no classes, the students encouraged to meditate and bathe and relax. Madame announces a headache shortly after breakfast, and retreats to her room, leaving Constance sighing in relief and Athos declaring that he and d’Artagnan will take the first shift.

“And what will you boys do?” Constance asks the others, standing and throwing her bag over her shoulder. She looks quite pretty in her halter and sarong, her nose just a bit red from the sun.

Aramis smiles, smoothes his fingers over his moustache and twirls the ends. “Oh, I imagine some entertainment will turn up.”

Porthos snorts. “I’m having another coffee. The rest of the day can see to itself.”

  

The day’s rain hits around one o’clock; technically the rainy season has been over for a few weeks, and d’Artagnan thinks that he wouldn’t be able to stand it in August, feeling trapped inside by the incessant downpour. He paces in front of the balcony doors, stripped to his trousers and undershirt, while Athos sprawls in his chair, apparently unconcerned.

“People do live like this, you know,” he says, not looking up from whatever he’s poking on his iPad. “You get an umbrella and get on with life.”

“That would be lovely advice,” d’Artagnan snipes, “if we were allowed to leave the fucking room.”

That makes Athos look up, and shake his head. “You’re allowed to leave the room, just don’t get distracted and wander off.”

“And where, exactly, would I  _go?_ ”

Athos sighs loudly, lowering his iPad to his knee. “Do you want something to do?”

“Christ, yes.” D’Artagnan’s hands drop to his belt on reflex, and Athos shakes his head, looking amused.

“Tempting, but no. No, there’s a bookshop just up the road, we pass it on the way to the retreat center. I want you to go there and get me a book. iTunes isn’t taking my login for some reason, and Stephen King’s new novel is out. Find me a copy in English.” He digs in his pocket and holds out a wad of _baht_ notes. 

“What’s it called?”

“I don’t remember,” Athos clearly lies. “So you’ll have to go through them all to find the one published this month.”

“Can’t I just ask someone?” D’Artagnan takes the money and crosses his arms, smiling in spite of himself.

“I don’t know, _can_ you? If you can find an employee with whom you share a common language, you are welcome to ask.”

“Shit.” He shoves his feet into his shoes, and pulls back his hair, finding his wallet and his room key and stuffing them in his pockets with Athos’ money. “Fine.”

“And d’Artagnan,” Athos calls as he opens the door to leave. “Bring it back dry.”

He’s getting on the elevator before Athos’ final comment makes sense, when two other guests shoulder in with umbrellas in hand. “Shit,” he swears again, jamming the door button just in time. “Sorry.”

He rounds the corner into their corridor at a brisk pace, moving fast enough that he almost walks straight into Aramis stepping out into the hall. He’s so focused on his mission that it takes several seconds to realize that Aramis, dressed in nothing but white boxer shorts and the gold cross he always wears, is coming out of the wrong room.

Aramis reacts even more slowly, taking a step back that knocks the door open wider, and d’Artagnan stares for what feels like forever before Aramis yanks it shut.

The room is a disaster, bedcovers and pillows and clothes everywhere. The woman on the bed is unmistakable, asleep on her side, blonde hair spilling across the sheets. There are two empty wine bottles on the nightstand, and one on the floor.

“I can explain,” Aramis says once the door is closed behind him, both hands up in surrender. “It’s not. Well, it is exactly what it looks like, but—“

“I need to go,” d’Artagnan interrupts, feeling cold for the first time since they arrived in Thailand. He hears Aramis call after him, but he keeps walking.

Athos is both unsurprised and unhelpful.

“Months ago,” d’Artagnan accuses in a low voice, “I asked you if there was something going on, and you completely refused to answer.”

“Months ago,” Athos corrects, far too calmly, “You tried to vaguely prompt me to tell you, and when I didn’t grace your fumbling with a reply, you ran away.”

“You were glaring at me!”

Athos raises an eyebrow. D’Artagnan sighs, flopping heavily into the chair opposite.

“Here’s what I know,” Athos says after a moment. “Aramis and Madame have an occasional – very occasional – intimate relationship. As it must absolutely stay out of the papers, and more importantly, out of Louis’—or Armand’s—sight, the fewer people who are aware, the better.”

“Does Porthos—” d’Artagnan begins, and then stops. He rubs his forehead. “You know, I’m not sure I want to know any more.”

When he looks up, Athos is regarding him with cool, unreadable eyes. "It's not my business to judge what they've agreed to between themselves,” he says. “My understanding is that Aramis is free to wander, provided he always returns. As long as I've known them, he always has."

“So that’s it?”

“Should there be more?” Athos shakes his head. “It’s a waste of time being angry with people who fall off the pedestals we put them on. Aramis is who he is, it’s not his fault you thought he was someone else.”

He wants to protest that it’s not that, that he knows exactly who Aramis is, but Athos is right, at least in part. He’d believed that Aramis was among the most fiercely loyal people he’d ever known, and that may still be true. It just had never occurred to d’Artagnan to question his own definition of loyalty. 

“Do you think that’s all right?” he says, biting at his lip as he thinks. “Sharing, like that?”

“Yes, I do. I wouldn’t choose it for myself,” Athos says, his expression softening. “But there is nothing at all wrong with it. Many people wouldn’t choose our relationship, the things we do. Just because a thing is uncommon, it is not by definition wrong.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan says, nodding. “I just… I really don’t get it. But I don’t always get us, either, so what do I know?”

That makes Athos sit forward, forehead creasing with his frown. “What do you mean? Is there something that. Has something we’ve done touched a limit for you? Something you didn’t want to talk about? Is it the other day, when—”

“No! No, nothing like that, not at all.” D’Artagnan gives him an embarrassed smile, shaking his head. “No, I love what we do. I’m just not always sure…”

“Sure of what?” Athos prompts.

“If we. You and I, I mean, if we are… more. More than just what we do.” He shakes his head again, looking down at his hands. “I don’t know what we are.”

“Look at me,” Athos says quietly. “D’Artagnan, look at me.” 

He’s not expecting the warmth in Athos’ expression, his eyes bright with a depth of affection that d’Artagnan has never seen before. He’s looked for it, he’s wanted to see it, but maybe Athos was holding back. Maybe Athos wasn’t sure, either. 

“You are very much more to me,” Athos says, his voice low and rough. “It is not about only sex, for me.”

Has it ever been, d’Artagnan wonders, remembering Athos’ unreadable face back in the beginning, when he’d asked about exclusivity.  _I would take that promise very seriously_ , Athos had said,  _and I would expect you to do the same._

“Me too,” he says, swallowing hard. “I mean, I. Yes. That’s.”

“Then that’s who we are,” Athos says with finality, sitting back in his chair.

D’Artagnan nods, feeling overwhelmed, feeling like if he’s not close to Athos right now, he’s going to shake apart. He drops to the floor, walks on his knees over to Athos’ chair, and curls against Athos’ legs, cheek on Athos’ thigh. He knows he’s pushing the bounds of their rules, waits for reprimand, but it doesn’t come. Instead he hears Athos exhale, feels Athos’ fingers sliding into his hair, pulling it free of its tie. Neither of them says another word. 

 

Athos sends him to mark the shift change a couple of hours later; despite how calming it had been to sit with Athos, his stomach is a knot when he knocks on Porthos and Aramis’ door. Aramis answers, fully dressed and wearing a sheepish expression that looks completely out of place.

“D’Artagnan,” he says.

“You guys are on,” d’Artagnan says. “Athos and I are going to dinner around nine, but just downstairs, so if you need us, call.”

Aramis nods, and pats his pockets before stepping into the hall. The door swings closed with a click behind him. “I got locked out, before,” he says, shrugging, still with that uncharacteristic embarrassment. It looks wrong, it  _feels_  wrong.

“I’m sorry, ah. About that,” d’Artagnan offers. “I overreacted.”

“Oh, you probably reacted appropriately,” Aramis says with a wry smile. “There was no shouting at least, which was a nice change from when Athos found out.”

“He was angry?” D’Artagnan is so surprised he forgets the rest of his planned apology. “He was just, he’s the one who… explained.”

Aramis leans back on the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Athos was furious. Which he was right to be, it’s… I know it’s delicate. Oh, let’s be honest, du Plessis would have me killed.” He puts his hand over his heart. “But you were angry, I think, because of Porthos, and that… means a great deal to me.”

“I didn’t know,” d’Artagnan says, gesturing at the door, the room where Porthos is, presumably, waiting. “And I’m still not sure I really understand?”

"I read a story once,” Aramis says, drumming his fingers on his chest, “that said love was not like a pie. There aren't a limited number of slices, and then it's gone." He runs his fingers over his moustache, all the previous shame gone from his eyes. “And Porthos… if there is a quantity beyond infinite, then that is what his heart holds.”

The look that Aramis casts over his shoulder at the closed door is like nothing d’Artagnan has ever seen.

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan repeats, offering his hand. “I was wrong to judge.”

“I’m sorry I disappointed you,” Aramis says, clasping d’Artagnan’s forearm.

“Don’t be, that’s. That’s on me, for assuming I knew what I didn’t.” It’s much less hard to say than he thought it would be.

“Then we’re good?” Aramis asks, pulling d’Artagnan in for a backslapping hug.

“Yeah, we’re good,” d’Artagnan answers. If he gives Aramis an extra squeeze before letting go, neither of them comments.

 

The rest of the trip is uneventful, nothing worse than a couple of photographers as they walk to dinner one night, a handful more when they arrive back at DeGaulle. A fresh team is waiting with the car for Madame and Constance; the four of them cram into a taxi back to TS, where Athos gives a brief report, and releases them all for their three days’ leave.

When d’Artagnan helps himself to the spare helmet and follows Athos to the garage, Athos doesn’t comment.

It’s late afternoon and the sun is spreading like a broken yolk across the horizon; the December wind cuts through d’Artagnan’s jacket and he wishes he could press his cheek to Athos’ back, to hide his face from the wind with Athos’ body instead of the helmet.

“This is familiar,” he comments as they let themselves into the flat, kicking off shoes and shedding outer layers. Lina has been in, the heat is on, and the mail is neatly stacked on the table inside the door.

“Not really,” Athos says, turning and catching d’Artagnan’s face in his hands. The kiss is filthy, promising all the things they’ve done without while away. “That night you were scared to death,” he murmurs when they finally break for air. “I much prefer you like this.”

“Exhausted, smelling like airplane…” d’Artagnan teases. “I don’t think I can manage anything more than a shower and a nap right now.” He hugs Athos around the waist, pushing his face into Athos’ neck. “Is that all right?”

Athos strokes his hair, and d’Artagnan feels him nod. “Of course,” he says.

“I’m just so glad to be home,” d’Artagnan mumbles. Athos doesn’t answer, just turns and tugs d’Artagnan toward the bedroom.

 

Athos is still asleep when d’Artagnan rolls out of bed around seven that night, his stomach growling and his limbs achy from lying too long in one position. He takes a quick shower and then raids the kitchen; Lina has left out some fresh fruit, tart end of season grapes, juicy  _clémentines_ , and sweet  _pomélo_. He makes a bowl of fruits, uncorks a bottle of cold  _chenin blanc_  from the fridge, and heads back into the bedroom.

“You need to let that breathe a bit,” Athos says, now sitting up and squinting at d’Artagnan through the shadows. He turns on the bedside lamp, and d’Artagnan can’t hold back a desperately fond smile at the sight of him, his hair in disarray, his beard tufty on one side and flat on the other.

“I know what to do with it,” he retorts, putting the bottle down on the night table. “Despite what Aramis keeps telling people, I wasn’t raised in a barn.”

Athos looks down his nose and sniffs delicately, which would seem much more aristocratic if he didn’t look like he’d been dragged through a hedge. D’Artagnan smiles serenely, and drops onto the bed, his back to the footboard, his dish of fruits on his lap. He sets to peeling one of the _clémentines_ , munching on grapes as he does.

“I missed the painting,” he says after a moment, leaning forward and passing Athos half the orange.

Athos blinks at him, then looks back over his shoulder at the frame hanging above him. “It’s an aquatint, actually. You what?”

“I missed it. It looks like a painting. I’ve always thought it was a painting.” He pops a section of orange into his mouth.

“Everyone hates this print,” Athos says, still looking confused. “That’s why it’s in the bedroom here, I got sick of he-hearing about how ugly it is.”

“It’s not ugly at all, I should know, I’ve had plenty of time to look at it. When I’m there–“ he tips his head back on the footboard, meaning to indicate the couch where he’s knelt so many times now. He doesn’t always need to fold up the sheet in his mind, not at this point, but tracing the lines on the painting – the print – has become a similar exercise.  “It helps, when I’m… letting go.”

Athos reaches out, wraps his hand around d’Artagnan’s ankle like he did that first weekend, strokes his thumb over the bump of bone there. “It’s called  _Lament for Lorca,_ ” he says, his voice soft. “In memory of Federico Garcia Lorca, he was a Spanish poet. He was murdered, executed, by the fascists in 1936.”

“That explains it, then. Why it’s so angry, but so calm and sad, all at once?” d’Artagnan muses, looking up at the piece again.

Athos stares, the seconds stretching out in silence so long that d’Artagnan is about to apologize when Athos lunges forward, taking d’Artagnan by the upper arms and dragging him into a fierce kiss. He’s so startled he can’t even react for a moment, just opening his mouth on reflex; Athos’ weight propels them backward, and d’Artagnan bangs his head on the footboard. The fruit bowl falls to the floor and shatters.

“Leave it,” Athos growls, hauling d’Artagnan further up the bed, pinning him down with his body, his hands tight on d’Artagnan’s wrists. “Please,” he says between kisses. “Please. Can I.”

“Green,” d’Artagnan moans, pushing up against Athos just to feel himself be slammed back down. He had loved what they’d done in Phuket, when their sex was quiet and careful – beautiful, but not  _this_. “Yes, do it.”

He’s put on his knees, facing the headboard and the print, hands lashed behind his back. Athos fucks him hard, one hand in his hair, just this side of hurting; he begs to come, over and over, and Athos refuses, over and over, till they’re both gasping for breath, dripping with sweat, muscles burning. Finally Athos stops, just stops, and d’Artagnan cries out in protest.

“Ask me,” Athos rasps.

“Please,” d’Artagnan sobs. “Please may I come?”

Athos wraps his hand around d’Artagnan’s cock and squeezes. “ _Yes_.”

He comes back to himself while Athos is untying his hands; he’s lying on his side, cheek pressed to a cool pillow. He’s left alone for a moment, then Athos returns, slipping a soft towel under his body, between his skin and the damp sheets. Athos has warm cloths as well, and he bathes every inch of d’Artagnan’s skin, taking such tender care that d’Artagnan wants to purr. It’s possible that he does, a bit, and Athos pets his head and kisses his cheek, his shoulder, his hip.

He drowses, he hears the shower run; when Athos comes back to bed he’s naked and wet haired, skin flushed from the hot water. He’s carrying a battered book in one hand, and he settles into the pillows, drawing d’Artagnan to his side.

“My Spanish isn’t good enough to read it properly in the original,” Athos says, showing d’Artagnan the cover:  _Oeuvres complètes de Federico García Lorca._ The spine is cracked, the thread showing through: it has obviously been read many times.

“Read me something,” d’Artagnan mumbles, closing his eyes, tucking his cheek against Athos’ shoulder. He feels Athos’ nod, hears the whisper of pages. 

“ _No one understood the perfume, ever,”_ Athos begins.“ _The dark magnolia of your belly. No one ever knew you martyred love’s hummingbird between your teeth.”_

“That’s gross,” d’Artagnan says sleepily, and Athos makes a soft noise of amusement. 

“Shh,” he says, brushing a gentle hand down d’Artagnan’s spine. “Shh. Listen.”

“Mmm.”

“ _A thousand Persian ponies fell asleep in the moonlit plaza of your brow, while four nights through I bound your waist, the enemy of snow. Between plaster and jasmine your glance, pale branch of seed. I searched my breast to give you the ivory letters saying: Ever.”_

D’Artagnan doesn’t hear the rest of the poem, or anything else after that; he only knows the rise and fall of Athos’ chest, the warmth of his arms, then nothing at all.

 

As he had their first weekend, Athos sends d’Artagnan away for the entire next day; unlike the first time, Athos spends a while kissing him soundly at the door and gives him a solid slap on the ass when he goes, startling d’Artagnan into laughter.

They’d woken again in the small hours. Athos rolled out of bed and stepped in the broken shards of the fruit bowl; he swore and dripped blood, limping to the bathroom. By the time d’Artagnan had stumbled after him, he already had the cut (small, shallow, on the arch of his foot) cleaned, and was taping a square of gauze on it, so d’Artagnan went back into the bedroom to deal with the mess.

They drank the wine, at that point room temperature, and tumbled back into bed; they got off on each other with sweat and friction and kisses that tasted of white grapes and salt. The morning greeted d’Artagnan with a thudding headache and watery sunlight; he was tucked against Athos’ back, his mouth slightly open on Athos’ shoulder.

So he goes when Athos kicks him out, he goes back to his flat without worry about what the evening will bring. Now he knows what to expect; Athos still gives him new things to try now and then, but so far there hasn’t been anything that wasn’t amazing. So far there hasn’t been anything that he didn’t discover that he wanted, and wanted fiercely.

He collects his glut of mail when he arrives back at his building, now packed so tightly into the mailbox that he can barely get it open. The envelopes are crushed and wrinkled, some of them torn. He neatens them the best he can, and tucks the bundle under his arm before getting on the lift to go upstairs, feeling his good mood fading fast.

There are a few letters that are actually for him: bank statement, mobile bill, a donation appeal from  _Médecins sans Frontières._ Two rent checks from the tenants at the farm. They’re probably wondering why they haven’t been deposited. He needs to find time to get to the bank; his bills have been sucking up his pay even faster than usual. He’s just lucky that Athos likes to feed him.

He sorts through the rest of the letters, pulling out anything that looks important. There are fewer of those, these days. Now most of the mail forwarded to him, addressed to his father, is junk and loose ends. The junk he can at least throw away; the others, like subscription renewal reminders and memberships, are yet more letters he will have to send.

_Alexandre d’Artagnan has died. Please remove this name and address from your mailing list._

He can never decide which is worse. The regular reminder, the sight of his father’s name, over and over, or the knowledge that the letters have for some time been growing fewer, and will eventually stop altogether.

It’s been at least six weeks since his last update from the police in Orleans. He thinks about calling, thinks about getting angry, demanding progress, knowing it would be a waste of energy. Even though they haven’t spoken in months, he knows that Tréville has already leaned on the local authorities a couple of times – d’Artagnan wasn’t supposed to be told, but the inspector had let it slip. It’s nice, he supposes, even if it is futile.

An hour passes and he’s still sitting at his tiny kitchen table, staring at the stack of mail, at his hands, at the wall. 

 

He’s short with Athos when he gets back to the flat that night, barely responding to Athos’ welcoming kiss, making unnecessary noise while he cooks, answering in monosyllables when Athos speaks to him. After dinner he takes his time cleaning up, all but dragging his feet when he goes into the living room. Athos regards him for a moment, then asks him to sit by his chair, a request that d’Artagnan is usually eager to grant. He usually loves it, loves the feeling of being petted and adored. D’Artagnan goes to his knees, but he goes slowly, his back to Athos where he’d always before sat to the side, where he could rest his head on Athos’ leg.

Athos puts his hand on d’Artagnan’s neck, and he shrugs it off.

There’s silence behind him, then Athos’ hand comes down again, this time on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, holding firmly – not tight enough to hurt, but sending a clear message.

“You’ve been a brat all night,” Athos says, his tone mild. “Since we parted quite well this morning, I can only assume something happened while you were out today. Is that correct?”

“No.” He bites off the word. It’s true, after all, nothing  _happened._

“Mm. So you’re just, for no particular reason, trying to get punished?”

D’Artagnan is silent, staring at the rug. He’s not sure how to answer. A part of him thinks punishment would be welcome right now; maybe he was courting it, a little.

“Have I done something to upset you?” Athos asks, loosening his hold and smoothing his palm over the line of d’Artagnan’s shoulders. His voice is quieter. From another man, d’Artagnan would call it uncertain.

“No,” he says, blowing out a deep breath and allowing himself to lean back, just a bit, into Athos’ touch. “I just…” He hitches one shoulder. “I don’t know how to explain.”

Athos gives d’Artagnan’s back another slow, gentle rub. “We don’t have to do this… any of this,” he says, just as soft as his touch. “Not tonight, not ever again if you want to, to stop.”

That makes d’Artagnan turn, looking up at Athos with something close to panic fluttering in his throat. “I don’t want to stop,” he says, twisting himself around till he’s in his usual position, gazing up at Athos. Athos’ expression is tight and worried.

“I don’t want to stop,” he repeats, pressing his face to Athos’ thigh. “I just. Can I just. Tell you some other time? I’m sorry, I’ve been… tonight I—“

“Shh, it’s all right. “

This time Athos’ hand on his neck is exactly what he wants, strong and grounding. He sighs, rubbing his cheek on the soft fabric of Athos’ trousers, while Athos pets him, gentling him like a horse.

“I think I just want to go to bed,” he says after a while, after he’s started to feel some of the tension bleed out of his muscles, his thoughts slowing. He can’t quite find his headspace, even with the sheet, but it’s better. 

“Go on, then,” Athos says, with a final stroke over d’Artagnan’s hair. “I’ll be there in a while.”

 

They go for a walk the next morning, go to brunch at a café on the other side of the neighborhood, near the Place de la Bastille. The service is terrible but the food is excellent; the former keeps the tourists away while the latter rewards the regulars. Athos likes it because it’s quiet and not at all trendy, unlike most of the places closer to the flat. D’Artagnan likes it because the  _oeufs pochés à la crème_ is like sex on a plate, served  _au gratin_ with a stack of crunchy buttered toast.

“You’d eat your own shoe if it had cheese sauce on it,” Athos says when d’Artagnan enthuses to the waitress about his meal.

Bernadette was maybe once a bombshell, but now she’s a firecracker, brassy hair piled high and her eyeliner winged over the deep creases at the corners of her eyes. There are four Americans at a table near the door who have been trying to get menus for ten minutes.

She looks down her nose at Athos, and sniffs before turning back to d’Artagnan. “This one, is it his money or his cock? It’s certainly not his personality.”

“He pays me,” d’Artagnan confirms in an undertone, leaning in to Bernadette confidentially. “He pays me a  _lot_.”

“Then you can tip better than you do,” she says, dropping the bill on the table. “I’ll tell Jean you liked the eggs.”

She swings away, teetering past the Americans to duck behind the bar.

Athos makes an amused noise, pulling some notes out of his wallet and tossing them on top of the bill as they both stand. “I’m glad you’re feeling better today,” he says quietly, giving d’Artagnan’s arm a brief squeeze.

“Maybe all I needed was a proper night’s sleep,” d’Artagnan answers, wanting to lean in for a kiss but holding back. Athos may not care who knows about their relationship, but he remains not at all demonstrative in public, limiting their contact to the smallest touches, almost never a kiss.

“Perhaps,” Athos agrees, shrugging into his coat. “Ready?”

Behind the bar Bernadette has turned the radio up to better ignore the Americans; she is humming along with  _Douce Nuit_ as she hangs a paper garland of silver and gold stars.

“Ready?” Athos repeats, and d’Artagnan looks back to him, shaking his head.

“Let me. Let me just get my coat.”

 

Their days return to normal;  although their normal is far from routine, there is a roughly predictable schedule. As a senior team they get the best shifts, although Porthos points out that unlike the lower ranking teams, their assignments are always on high-value assets, and almost always on Louis or Madame. "Not like we can relax even if we are sitting at a spa," Porthos says one morning, slouching in one of the overstuffed chairs in the waiting area.

He tries to imagine Porthos with cucumber slices on his eyes and a towel around his head, and succeeds all too well; he has to stifle a snicker into his sleeve. Porthos gives him the side-eye and picks up a copy of  _Elle_.

In d'Artagnan's opinion, though, the stress of navigating Madame through crowds of paparazzi, or Louis through picket lines, is mitigated by the fact that he's usually home by seven. If  _home_ , of late, has come in his mind to mean Athos' flat, he doesn't question it. He doesn't want to be in his own flat anyway, where it's cramped and chilly and he'd had the television disconnected to save money. He can't stand his building or his street, both full of noisy young families and twinkling Christmas lights, the shops spilling out cheerful music with every opened door. At least in Athos' building it's warm and quiet; in Athos' neighborhood the people are slightly too rich to put on any more than the most tasteful holiday displays.

It's safe in Athos' flat. He goes there after work and lets himself in with the door code on the ground floor, the poorly hidden spare key on top of the flat's doorframe. He kicks off his shoes and plays housewife, plugs his phone into the fancy little stereo he found disguised as part of the bookshelves and blasts Oxmo while he cooks dinner. Athos will arrive and sigh at him to turn that shit down, appearing behind him with a gentle touch, a kiss on his neck. He spends the nights before their days off, and sometimes Athos will kick him out in the mornings but increasingly often, Athos lets him stay. Given enough to occupy his mind—or to shut it off completely—d'Artagnan won't leave all day long.

It's  _safe_. When d'Artagnan feels weakest, when he wants to stop being brave and pretending he knows what the fuck he's doing, Athos is there. Athos still drinks too much some nights, still makes d'Artagnan stay away and refuses to share the things that eat at him; he asked, once, and was shut down so completely that he’s never dared again. He's not under any illusion, not anymore, that Athos has it all together. Athos’ control doesn’t come naturally: it’s an act of will. Most of the time, that makes it feel even better – the knowledge that Athos is summoning up his strength not just for himself, but also for d'Artagnan.

If d'Artagnan needs to let go, Athos will catch him.

D'Artagnan learns to take Athos’ fist on a bitter Thursday afternoon in mid-December, while outside icy wind slices through the streets. Inside the radiators are pouring out heat, and d'Artagnan is dripping sweat, soaking the sheets, his hair sticking to his cheeks and lips. His hands are tied over his head, his hips supported on soft cushions; there's another pillow tucked behind his head so that he doesn't hurt his neck.

He’s never felt anything like it, never felt so full, so taken over; he feels every movement of Athos’ hand in every part of his body. He's vaguely aware of the tears that keep escaping his eyes, prickling at the corners before running down his temples into his hair, but he's not in pain. Not even close.

Athos turns his hand and d'Artagnan bucks, straining against the ropes and gasping. He's long past the point where he feels anything but degrees of pleasure, waves of intense sensation crashing over him again and again. His body is completely under Athos' control, his mind is folded up and tucked away safely. All that exists is this bliss, curling back in on itself in unending spirals, the red and black in his mind swirling together. When Athos finally lets him come, he feels dissolved, unmade.

He sleeps for four hours afterward, in the guest bed; he wakes to Athos sitting up beside him, reading in the weak light from the bedside lamp. Athos glances down at him when he stirs, and gently touches the back of d'Artagnan's neck.

"Do you want to go back to, ah, to the other room?" he offers in a low voice. "I cleaned up."

D'Artagnan shakes his head, wriggles closer so that his nose is almost on Athos' hip. "M'fine wherever you are," he mumbles. He breathes in; he sleeps.

 

There's a department-wide staff meeting early on the 17th to review the holiday work schedule, reassignments to allow some to take time for family, for travel, and others who want, or need, the money to pick up extra work. Clèment, the senior officer who oversees the scheduling for the close security teams, and Athos are leading the meeting, which is to say Clèment is talking and Athos is leaning on the wall, arms crossed and scowling at everyone.

D'Artagnan reads his line on the schedule through three times before leaning in to Aramis to whisper, "This says I'm off from the 20th to the 30th."

Aramis nods, eyes still on his own papers. "We all are, don't worry about it."

"Maybe you don't worry about it," d'Artagnan hisses, "but I can't afford ten days without work. I thought I'd be on the Christmas detail, I  _asked_  to be on the Christmas detail."

"It's paid leave," Porthos says, leaning around Aramis with a flash of white teeth. " _Joyeux Noël._ "

D'Artagnan stares at the papers again, at the row of dates next to his name. Off from the 20th to the 30th, on for 72 straight afterward. He opens his mouth again and Aramis murmurs,

"Anyone who works the Bourbons' New Year party gets the week before off, paid. Believe me when I tell you, you'll be glad of the rest."

"Are there any questions?" Clèment is asking from the front of the room, shooting d'Artagnan a dirty look. He bows his head and tries to ignore Porthos and Aramis snickering.

"Right," Clèment says, "meet with your team leaders for your specific detail assignments, you know the drill. Dismissed."

D'Artagnan is waiting for the lift when he hears the voices behind him; he stiffens but he knows he wouldn't be able to hear them if they didn't want him to, which means they want a reaction. He refuses to give them one.

"—the whole team, probably," the first voice is saying.

"How else would he get a crack at Team Three if he wasn't sucking somebody's dick? It's not like he could buy his way on."

He stares fixedly up at the numbers above the lift doors, falling entirely too slowly.

"—has the mouth for—"

"—lets them do whatever they—"

A heavy hand falls on d'Artagnan's shoulder: Porthos. He startles even as he realizes who it is, turning in time to see Aramis throwing his arms around the necks of the two men who'd been talking. He knows their faces but not their names. Team Twelve, maybe? Fit, white, in their thirties, with the sort of bland military aspect that so many of the agents have.

"Answer me this," Aramis is saying, "and think very carefully before you do. If Agent d'Artagnan  _was_ our, what was it? Our  _boy_ , and not merely our friend and our teammate, how do you think we'd react to hearing him being insulted? Because I can assure you that, as his friends and teammates, we would  _already_  be extremely displeased."

"Aramis, stop scaring the children," Athos says, appearing like a demon out of thin air at d'Artagnan's other elbow. "I wanted you all for detail review five minutes ago."

"Merely encouraging the bonds of fraternity," Aramis answers brightly, giving the two men, now both looking red-faced and sick, each a good shake before letting go.

"It is," Porthos says earnestly, "important to maintain collegial relationships in the workplace."

Athos rolls his eyes. "Get on the fucking lift," he says, which opens with a ding as though he'd summoned it. He gives d'Artagnan a push through the doors.

To their credit, the others are silent on the way up to their floor, while d'Artagnan fidgets and stares at his phone. Athos waits until they have all followed him into his office, and the door is closed, before speaking again.

"I'm not going to tell you to not let it bother you," he says, addressing d'Artagnan, allowing some of his anger to bleed through into his voice. "You have every right to be bothered by the things they were saying, and if you want to make any kind of formal complaint, we would support you."

D'Artagnan sighs, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket and hitching his shoulders. He’s exhausted already and it’s not even 9 am; he can’t bring himself to speak carefully. "It's not like it isn't true."

Someone, probably Aramis, sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. Athos narrows his eyes. "You were recruited, hired, and placed on this team by the head of this corporation. While that is not common knowledge, it  _is_ the truth, and the only truth that matters. The fact that you and I have developed a relationship outside of work has absolutely no bearing on how you're treated here."

It's the first time that Athos has ever explicitly acknowledged them, that there  _is_  a them, in front of anyone else, and d'Artagnan feels suddenly dizzy with affection. He stares at Athos, helpless.

"We'll just be going," Aramis announces, but Athos shakes his head with a disgusted look.

"You. Please try not to threaten other staff in front of witnesses," he says. "I was not joking about detail review, sit down."

"Only threatened 'em a little," Porthos mutters.

D'Artagnan sits and fumbles with his papers, trying to find the next day's agenda. When he glances up, Athos is watching, his face unreadable as always, but d’Artagnan still feels relieved, reassured in a way he’s not sure he can articulate. D’Artagnan bites down on his smile and looks back down, finding the right page at last.

 

The sense of peace is short-lived, but it’s not Athos’ fault, it’s not anyone’s fault, really. The team spends the days before their holiday shadowing the Bourbons through an interminable number of Christmas parties, getting in it seems later and later each time. At the end of each night, D’Artagnan collapses into bed bedside Athos for a few hours of sleep, and nothing but sleep.

Athos doesn't remark on the fact that d'Artagnan has stopped going back to his own flat, so d'Artagnan doesn't either. He's grateful for the silence, mostly, although he's not sure how much of it is Athos being sensitive to his mood and how much is Athos just being... Athos.

He gets his answer on the first day of their break, after he's slept till one pm and spent the rest of the day shuffling around in a pair of Athos' pajamas. It's after dinner, and d'Artagnan lies on the sofa with his head in Athos' lap. Athos is reading something on his iPad, running his fingers through d'Artagnan's hair, petting the back of his neck. It should be soothing, he should be half asleep by now, but he can't settle. It feels like there's an enormous rock between his shoulder blades that he can’t shake off.

About the twentieth time he shifts, Athos drops his hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezes.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, his voice soft and mild. When d'Artagnan glances up, Athos' eyes are on his iPad, but he still gives off the impression that his awareness is filling the entire room.

"I don't know," d'Artagnan answers truthfully. He sighs, and butts his cheek against Athos' thigh.

"You've been quiet for a few days. Is it those pricks who were making comments?" Athos shifts his hold on d'Artagnan's shoulder, and digs his thumb into the knot at the base of d'Artagnan's neck.

"Hngh," d'Artagnan says. “Unh. No.”

"Sometimes I can tell what's wrong," Athos goes on, working gently at the tense muscles under his hand. "But not always. You need to tell me when something's wrong, so I can fix it."

"This helps," d'Artagnan mumbles into Athos' leg. "But you can't fix everything."

"Mm. Come on, up, let's take a bath."

In the tub Athos works a bit more on d'Artagnan's neck and shoulders, teasing out the knots with strong fingers, until he collapses backward onto Athos' chest with a blissful sigh.

"Thank you," he says, turning his head and kissing Athos' arm, the closest bit within reach.

"Of course," Athos says. He pulls the plug for a few minutes, then drops it back into the drain and turns the hot tap on. They resettle in the newly steaming water, and d'Artagnan tips his head back onto Athos' shoulder, parting his lips for an upside-down kiss.

"I'm sorry," he says when they break a moment later. "I've not been feeling well."

"That much I know," Athos says, smoothing d'Artagnan's wet hair back from his face. His fingertips linger over d'Artagnan's cheek.

"It's just." He blows out a breath, trying to find the words without undoing all that Athos has just done to help him relax. "It's just. Christmas."

He's still looking up; he sees when Athos gets it, when Athos' face, for the briefest moment, transforms with grief. The pain in his eyes is bright and sharp, quick as a knife.

"I see," is all Athos says, with a slight nod.

D'Artagnan closes his eyes, settles more firmly into Athos' arms. "I have literally no idea how to do this," he says. "Christmas, like this. It's not... it's not a religious thing. It's just. I was an only child, you know, I was. My mother left Italy when she was a teenager. Dad said she never talked about her family. And my father's parents died when I was little, even before my mother, and his two sisters had both married and moved away, so it was just us. From the time I was eight, it was just us, when everyone else I knew was having big holidays, all my friends had big families, but we were always together, and it was enough. Even when I was deployed I would still call, or Skype, and—."

He stops when he realizes Athos isn't just stroking his cheek, but wiping away tears.

"Sorry," he says.

"Don't be sorry," Athos says, cupping his chin. He feels a kiss light on his forehead. "Tell me more. Tell me what you need."

"There isn't really more," d'Artagnan says. "I don't really want to stay in the city, if the farm wasn't rented out I'd maybe go down there, but I feel like..." He shrugs. "I just don't know how to do this."

They are both quiet for a few minutes, d'Artagnan trying to find peace in the rise and fall of Athos' chest, in the gentle sweeps of Athos' hands over his body. The heat comes on with a clunk and a hiss.

"If it'll help," Athos says, sounding more tentative than d'Artagnan has ever heard. "It's not much of a substitute, but if it might help, there is a place we could go."

D'Artagnan blinks up at him. "You mean. You and me? For Christmas?"

"Yes?" The corner of Athos' mouth turns up, and d'Artagnan feels so achingly fond in that moment that he thinks he could cry again.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, that might help."

 

Athos' place-we-could-go is the family seat just outside of La Fère in Picardy, a sprawling estate full of gardens and ponds and new growth forest, with a château that looks like a postcard, lightly dusted with snow and candles in every window.

"They're electric," Athos explains, unprompted, in a grumbled undertone as they get out of the car. "It's just a thing they do."

"A thing who does?" d'Artagnan says, turning slowly in the driveway. "You really own this place?"

"The staff does it. The caretaker. There isn't a staff. Anymore. Mostly. Why are you making that face?"

D'Artagnan grins even wider. "Oh my god,” he says. “Aramis wasn’t lying. You actually are a _comte._ "

Athos kicks a loose piece of gravel toward the front door. “It’s not a legal distinction anymore,” he mutters. 

There are twelve bedrooms. There's a fireplace in the kitchen that's so huge that d'Artagnan is sure it could be used to roast an ox. It probably has.

There are sheets over things in most of the rooms that d’Artagnan can see, but there is very little dust; the place is obviously regularly cleaned and cared for. Someone (the _staff,_ he is never getting over the fact that there’s a staff _)_  has opened up one large bedroom suite upstairs, a sitting room and what d’Artagnan guesses is a music room near the kitchen downstairs. The latter Athos walks into and throws the cover back over the piano.

"Explore as much as you like," Athos says, stepping back from the piano with a faint frown. "If any room is locked, it's locked for a reason, just leave it. Otherwise, go anywhere you please. The pool is heated, I'll make sure Denis cleaned it and turned it on."

"Is there a jacuzzi?" d'Artagnan asks, reaching out and catching Athos' hand to tug him out of the room, toward the nearest set of stairs.

"No."

"Do the fireplaces work?"

"Well, you have to put the fire in them yourself, but yes."

"Doesn't the  _staff_ do that?" d'Artagnan teases, stopping at the foot of the stairs and pulling Athos closer.

"I will build you all the fires you want," Athos promises, settling his hands on d'Artagnan's hips.

"You already do," he answers nonsensically, and leans in for a kiss.

 

There is a massive fir tree in the sitting room when d’Artagnan stumbles downstairs in the morning, wrapped in pajama pants and Athos’ sweater and one of the blankets from the bed. The floor is freezing under his wool-socked feet. He’s so groggy and disoriented that he doesn’t even notice the tree at first, just pads up to the crackling fire and sticks his hands out. Both blanket and sweater slip from his shoulder.

“I could have Denis actually start the furnace,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan jumps a little, tripping over the trailing corner of the blanket.

"Jesus," he says, and then yawns a jaw-popping yawn. "Don't sneak up on me when I'm asleep."

Athos sits back in his chair, a deep old wing-backed thing set not far from the fire, and quirks his eyebrow. "Sometimes I give serious thought to having your IQ tested."

"Where did the tree come from?" d’Artagnan answers, finally catching sight of it, looming near the windows. It's at least two and a half meters high, its branches full and heavy with dark green needles. It smells amazing.

"My point, your honor," Athos murmurs, getting to his feet. He stuffs one hand in the pocket of his trousers, shoulders turning in a bit. "It's a Christmas tree. I thought you might like to. Decorate, or whatever."

D'Artagnan breathes in the scent of the tree, closing his eyes as they grow wet at the corners. He feels Athos' hand in the middle of his back, rubbing small circles. "Yeah," he sighs. "I would really like that."

They do, after breakfast, after d'Artagnan has made omelets and a fresh pot of coffee, and several romantic overtures to the kitchen appliances. Athos shrugs when d'Artagnan says something about getting dressed, so he stays in his haphazard outfit and stands on a kitchen chair to string lights around the tree. Someone has bought several boxes of exquisite glass ornaments, more than enough, so d'Artagnan takes his time selecting the ones he likes best, directing Athos where to put the ones on the lower branches while he takes charge of the upper half.

Athos looks stricken, though, when d'Artagnan holds out his hand and asks for the topper.

"Shit," he says, glancing around the room. "Shit, I didn't tell Claudia to get. I forgot the star."

He digs in his pocket like he's going for his phone, and d'Artagnan hops down from the chair, stops Athos with a hand on his arm.

"It's not a crisis," he says, curling his fingers around Athos' forearms. "It's just an ornament. Look, the tree is gorgeous. You arranged all of this in a matter of hours; I don't even know how to thank you, just. Don't worry about the star, all right?"

Athos nods and takes in a deep breath, and very deliberately removes his arms from d'Artagnan's hold; he places his hands on d'Artagnan's arms instead, his grip secure. He nods again, and then pauses, eyes searching for something in d'Artagnan's face. "May I?" he asks at last.

"Green," d'Artagnan breathes, arousal flaring with sudden force. Athos sighs softly, and pushes d'Artagnan to his knees.

At this point it's nearly like flipping a switch, like both his body and brain simply go lax, so complete is his trust in Athos' control.

"Hands behind your back," Athos instructs in that same soft tone. "You can make as much noise as you like."

"Yes," d'Artagnan says. He grips his elbows behind his back, stares up at Athos with his lips parted, waiting.

Athos doesn't fuck his mouth the way d'Artagnan expects, it's not rough, Athos doesn't pull his hair or make him gag. Instead Athos cups the back of his head gently, rocks his hips to a slow rolling pace, his cock sliding hot and easy over d'Artagnan's tongue. Instead of filthy encouragement, Athos sighs praises and thanks, his voice growing rougher as he gets closer.

D'Artagnan moans and pulls off, letting Athos' cock drag over his lower lip before looking up into Athos' dark, unfocused eyes. "Please come in my mouth?" he asks, his own voice a raspy whisper.

"You are so fucking beautiful," Athos sighs by way of answer. He takes hold of d'Artagnan's chin and opens his mouth, pushing back inside. "You're so fucking good."

After, Athos spreads d'Artagnan's blanket in front of the fire; he cuddles d'Artagnan to his chest and jerks him off with the same slow, easy pace as the blowjob, kissing him through it, encouraging all of d'Artagnan's helpless noises before finally ordering, "Let it go. Come for me."

They doze there on the floor, only waking when the fire has died and the chill has become outright cold. It's midday, the sun shining bright through the windows, catching the tree ornaments and throwing rainbows on the walls. D'Artagnan stretches lazily, turns on his side to watch Athos rebuild the fire.

"I could stay here forever," he sighs. Athos smiles in reply, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

 

It gets worse in the evening, and worse the next day. Athos is warm and attentive, when he remembers to be; the rest of the time he's tense and distracted. Whenever d'Artagnan asks, he smiles tightly and says he's fine, changes the subject. D’Artagnan is fairly sure that this house would’ve been where Athos lived when he was married, and also that this is where his brother died, but he's not positive, and he's afraid to ask.

The afternoon of the third day, of Christmas Eve, he finds Athos sitting at the piano in the music room; the cover is thrown partway back, and Athos is staring at the keys, running his fingers over the ivory without pressing them. There's a half-empty bottle of wine sitting on the lid. 

"Hey," he says, stepping into the room.

"Mm," Athos answers without looking up.

"It's a little warmer today," he says. "Thought we could try the pool."

Athos' phone chooses that moment to ring, and they both startle; Athos digs it out of his pocket, and his face when he looks at the display is openly panicked.

"Go on," Athos says, standing fast enough that his thighs bump the keyboard with a discordant sound. "I need to take this, I'll meet you there." He turns and strides out of the room;  _Sorry, sorry,_ is all d'Artagnan hears before Athos shuts the door behind him.

Athos joins him in the kitchen about ten minutes later, and he looks twice as tired as he did when he picked up the phone. "I'm walking into the village for a little bit," he says, pausing by the sink. "I thought you were going for a swim."

"Decided to eat first," d'Artagnan says, continuing to carve cold chicken for a sandwich. The knives are razor sharp, and the slices are paper-thin.

"Do try not to get a cramp and drown." Athos leans in and brushes his lips over d'Artagnan's, there and gone before d'Artagnan can respond.

"Old wives' tale," he answers instead. "I'll be fine."

"I'll be an hour, hour and a half," Athos says, stealing one of the slices of chicken. "Just a couple things to take care of, everything will be closed tomorrow."

There's something just wrong, just  _off_ about Athos' smile when he goes, and d'Artagnan can't quite smile back.

 

He doesn't swim. He paces around the ground floor, frustrated by locked doors everywhere he turns. It's such a rotten metaphor that he wants to laugh. Eventually he settles back in the sitting room they've been using, in the big chair by the fire. He's got some books on his iPad, so even though there's no wireless he can at least read.

He mostly stares at the screen until it locks, over and over.

It's more like two hours, and the sky is rapidly darkening, when he hears a car in the drive. Athos had left on foot — maybe he took a taxi back? D'Artagnan crosses to the window anyway, and looks out.

There's little daylight left but the lights along the drive have come on, and a slick red Audi cabriolet is idling outside, practically in front of the window. Athos gets out, and so does a woman, who rounds the car and meets Athos to pull him into her arms.

The embrace is tight and goes on for a while; she kisses both his cheeks when she steps back. Athos is smiling wide as he speaks, and the woman laughs, shaking her head. She's gorgeous, brown-skinned and curvy, her clothes the kind of casual that costs a fortune. Athos reaches out, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear; she catches his hand and holds it to her cheek for a moment.

D'Artagnan can't look away. He can't hear a word they're saying but he can see everything, see how Athos laughs at something she says, how Athos turns and leans on the car door and pulls the woman to his side. She tips her head onto his shoulder, and he rests his chin on her head. They talk like that for several more minutes, long enough for d'Artagnan to seriously consider just going out there and demanding to know what's going on.

They part abruptly though, Athos straightening and stepping away from the car. He gestures as he speaks, pointing into the distance, and then back at the château with a jerk of his thumb. The woman nods, catches Athos' face with her hands and kisses his cheeks again. Then she wipes her eyes, climbs into the car, and roars away.

D'Artagnan is back in his chair by the time Athos comes in, who shrugs his coat off and drops it on the chaise before coming to stand by the fire. His eyes are red-rimmed, and his cheeks are flushed; his lips are cold when they press to d'Artagnan's in a glancing kiss.

"How was your walk?" d'Artagnan asks, watching Athos hold his hands out to the fire, chafing his palms together. Athos makes a face like he's shrugging with his mouth.

"Eh. It was all right. It's colder than I thought, I take it you didn't try the pool?"

"No, I had really wanted to do it with you."

Athos nods, not looking away from the fire. "Maybe in the morning. A Christmas swim."

He's really going to do this, d'Artagnan thinks, swiping a fingertip up and down his iPad screen, making the words flicker as they scroll. He's really going to act like nothing happened; he's really going to just... pretend. Like he wasn't just a few dozen meters away, pressed up against some woman, smiling and laughing in a untroubled way that he has  _never—_ even as much as he's opened up to d'Artagnan these past months—ever done with him.

"Did you find what you needed in the village?"

D'Artagnan knows that he can turn on the wide, guileless eyes when he wants to; Porthos calls it the 'lost puppy' look, and it's worked to their advantage on the job more than once. He also knows that Athos will immediately recognize the expression for what it is.

He also finds he doesn't  _care._

"No," Athos answers shortly. He pins a sharp look on d'Artagnan. "If there's something on your mind, I'd quite prefer it if you just spit it out, instead of whatever... this. Is."

“You were with a woman,” d’Artagnan says, blunt as a fist, and feels gratified to see Athos swallow—on him it’s as a flinch would be on anyone else. D’Artagnan stands up, crowding into Athos’ space. “I heard the car, so I went to the window.”

He reaches out, and plucks a couple of long, black hairs from the front of Athos’ cream-colored sweater. They could be his own, but he’s sure they’re not.

Athos tilts his head, makes a circular gesture as he says, “And you decided you’d sit and hiss at me like a cat instead of simply  _asking_ who I was with?”

“Would you have answered?” d’Artagnan fires back. “You clearly weren’t planning on volunteering the information.”

“I’ve been in the door five minutes, for god’s sake.”

Athos is angry, and there’s a satisfaction in it, in having provoked him, really provoked him. 

“When were you going to explain, then? I can wait.” D’Artagnan steps back and away, indicates the chair with a sweep of his hand. “If you just give me some idea of how long… Maybe set a timer?”

It’s a cheap shot and he knows it, regrets it as soon as Athos pales and clenches his fists. But Athos steadies himself after a moment, shakes his head and regards d’Artagnan through narrowed eyes.

“This isn’t like you,” Athos says, and the effort it’s taking to keep his voice level is obvious. “I don’t know why you’re trying to pick a fight—“

“Because you  _lied_ ,” d’Artagnan explodes, throwing his hands up. His voice rings off the high ceiling and the walls. “You got that call and you suddenly had mysterious errands and you  _lied_ , you sneaked off with somebody and you won’t tell me anything, you never fucking  _tell_ me anything, so I don’t even bother asking. You don’t, I didn’t even know you had a  _house_ until four days ago, how am I supposed to trust you when I don’t know anything about you? How, Athos, how… the things I trust you with.”

Now that he’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop. He drops his hands to his sides, and shakes his head. “It’s not even so much the idea that you might be fucking her,” he goes on, the words like stones in his mouth. “It’s. You brought me out here to cheer me up, because of Christmas, and my dad… You’ve been weird and distracted the whole time, and then you lied, and. And then you  _sneaked off._ It’s not so much the woman so much as, as you said this trip was for me and now I don't know if that's even true.”

Athos is staring at him, misery all over his face. He looks like he’s about to throw up, and d’Artagnan wonders if he looks the same way. He certainly feels it.

“It is,” Athos says. “We came here for you. I wasn’t thinking that she’d be here, I had forgotten all about it.”

The anger flares back to life as quickly as it had fled. “Oh. You  _forgot_  your secret girlfriend?”

“For god’s sake, she’s not my fucking girlfriend!” Athos pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ. I need a drink for this conversation.” He turns on his heel and walks out.

It takes d’Artagnan a moment to realize, to turn and catch up. Athos strides out into the main hall, turns and walks through the shadowed corridor, finally stopping at a pair of tall double doors. He doesn’t look back at d’Artagnan, just says, “The bar is in the library. I’m having a brandy, would you like one?”

Athos pulls out his keys, puts one in the lock and turns it; it opens soundlessly, as do the doors when Athos throws them wide. He flicks on a set of lights and stalks into the room.

It’s the sort of library that d’Artagnan’s only seen in films, floor to ceiling with books and art. There is a pair of dust-sheeted chairs by the empty fireplace, a table with a backgammon board sat in between. Other chairs and a couple of chaises also dot the room, and true to Athos’ word, there’s a sideboard of gleaming dark wood, a tray of glasses and bottles on top.

Athos grabs a large glass and dumps nearly the entire contents of a decanter into it; the sip he takes as he crosses the room to the fireplace is more like a gulp. He beckons with a wave, his tone impatient. “Come on, you wanted answers.”

The wide mantel is crowded with picture frames, some obviously antique, some still like new. It’s one of the newer ones that Athos brings forward, a large color photo of three people standing in front of this house. Athos is in the middle, young, short-haired, buttoned up in a blue dress uniform. On the left is another young man with floppy fringe, taller and skinnier than Athos, dressed casually; on the right is the woman from the driveway, wearing a sundress of bright orange. All three have their arms around each other’s shoulders, and smiles as wide as the sky.

“My brother Thomas,” Athos says, jabbing at the glass in front of the other man’s face. “And his fiancée, Cécile. Cécile Raymond. They might not have been engaged, at this point, I don't remember what year this was. My first or second at Saint-Cyr? I don’t remember.”

He points to another photo on the shelf, this one of three grubby little kids on the shore of a pond. The girl is holding up a frog nearly as big as her head. “We all grew up together. We were best friends. Tommy and Cece fell in love, and it was going to be perfect forever."

Athos turns back to d’Artagnan, that familiar wry not-smile smile on his face. “Cece and Tommy were. They were the best people I’ve ever known. They should’ve had more time together. They should have had  _everything_ , and I.”

D’Artagnan swallows hard, his stomach churning. He feels guilty for how obviously Athos is hurting, but he couldn’t have known, there was no way he could have known, because Athos doesn’t share. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry that talking about this hurts you so much. I just wish you trusted…” He stops, and shrugs.

“Trusted you?” Athos takes another gulp of brandy, the smell of alcohol sharp in the air. “I do trust you. I trust you far more than I trust myself.”

“You’ve never once even taken my hand in the street,” d’Artagnan blurts out. “Do you have any idea how it felt to see you hugging someone else? To see you laughing and smiling so easily, and know how rarely you give those things to me?”

“I  _want_ to give them to you!” Athos says, almost a shout. He slams his glass down on the nearby table, grabs d’Artagnan’s face in his hands. “I want to, so much, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I can do this.”

It’s freezing in here, d’Artagnan thinks, as he extricates himself and steps back. He shivers. “Are you. Are you saying?”

“Christ. No. No, I am not leaving you, d’Artagnan, I’m asking you for  _help._ ”

Athos will request assistance at work. He will give instructions, he will suggest collaboration, but he doesn’t ask for help. Aramis has joked that he’s not sure Athos even knows the word.

“ _How_  can I help?” d’Artagnan asks miserably. “I don’t even know what’s wrong.”

“I thought this would help,” Athos says, turning back and staring at the mantel full of pictures. “Get you out of Paris, give you a, something like a nice Christmas. You _deserve_ that. And I thought having you here would… make it better. But it’s so fucking hard, I don’t know how.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, leaving it tousled and wild. “I don’t  _remember how_ , that’s why… seeing Cece is, she’s the one person who really remembers, before.”

“Before your brother died.”

“Before Tommy was murdered,” Athos corrects, his shoulders slumped. He shakes his head, reaches out and traces the frame of a portrait of that same grinning, bright-eyed boy, dressed in _baccalauréat_ robes.

It clicks all of a sudden, the gears in d’Artagnan’s mind catching and turning. He feels so stupid not to have seen it before. It’s not just that this is the place where Athos’ brother died; it’s the place where Anne killed him. Thomas de la Fère is one of the ghosts here, but he’s not the one doing the haunting.

“We can go,” d’Artagnan says, putting a cautious hand on Athos’ back. He’s surprised when Athos leans into it.

“Cécile always calls at Christmas,” Athos says, disregarding d’Artagnan’s words. “Her family home isn’t far, the other side of the village, she always invites me to spend it with them, even though she knows I’ll never accept. I haven’t willingly come here in years, when I said that I was, actually, here at La Fère, she said,  _bullshit._ ”

Athos chuckles, dry and mirthless. He turns to look at d’Artagnan, and shrugs. “I really had forgotten. And I didn’t know how to explain, I just. I needed to see her. She’s my oldest friend, my closest friend, for all that we don’t meet often anymore. She’s the one person I knew who.” He stops, and shrugs again. “Sometimes I need permission, too.”

“Permission to do what?”

It’s a weak smile, but a smile no less. “Move on,” he says, with one last glance at the photos. “To move on.”

As if putting deed to word Athos starts to walk away, but he only makes it halfway toward the library doors before he drops onto a chaise, hands over his face. D’Artagnan moves on instinct, closing the distance and sitting beside him, throwing his arm around Athos’ back, pulling him into his side, the way that Athos has done so many times for him.

After a moment, Athos tips his head onto d’Artagnan’s shoulder. D’Artagnan inhales, closes his eyes, and rests his chin on top.

They sit there for a long time. Athos leans on him, and he rubs Athos’ back in slow circles until his arm grows tired. The room gets colder and colder, and d’Artagnan has to keep shifting his feet to keep the blood flowing, but Athos seems comforted and he’s reluctant to let go.

“I’ve put off telling you so many things,” Athos says at last, pulling away just enough to meet d’Artagnan’s eyes. “I promised you at the very start, I’d tell you…. things, I should’ve done sooner, I’m sorry.”

“I want this to work,” d’Artagnan says, half-surprised at the baldness of his honesty. “I want more than just the sex to work. You told me it was more than sex, and I. I believed you.”

“It’s difficult,” Athos sighs. He sweeps cold fingers over d’Artagnan’s brow. “I don’t remember what it’s like, to love someone and not also be afraid of them.”

The words ring in d’Artagnan’s ears, like a shout in an empty room. “Athos,” he whispers, and Athos looks at him with an expression of such resigned sadness that d’Artagnan wants to weep; he wants to grab Athos and shake him.

“There you are!” comes a voice from behind them. They both turn guiltily, and then Athos springs to his feet to greet the woman standing in the open library doors. She looks to be in her sixties, wearing a dark wool dress and a flowered apron, with a field coat and Wellingtons. Her silver hair spills from of a bun on top of her head.

“Claudia,” Athos says with a little nod and half-bow. He gives the woman a sheepish shrug. “I completely lost track of the time, forgive me.”

“Why in god’s name are you two sitting in this freezing room?” Claudia says, frowning as she turns out into the hall. “I’m not staying in here, come into the kitchen and introduce your young man, Olly.”

“Olly?” d’Artagnan mouths, unable to keep the glee off his face. It’s a whiplash change from a moment ago, but it feels so good to see Athos glower and twitch.

“Don’t even dream of it,” Athos says, reaching out to bring d’Artagnan to his feet. “You’ll be sleeping on the floor for a month.”

“Might be worth it,” he teases, and impulsively draws Athos into his arms.

Athos holds on a bit longer than he usually would, pressing his face to d’Artagnan’s hair. “We’ll talk later,” Athos says in his ear. “Is that all right?”

“Yeah. That’s all right.” He kisses Athos’ jaw. “It’s fine.”

“Good.” Athos steps back then, and takes d’Artagnan’s hand as they head for the doors. “Come on, I can tell you from long experience that keeping Madame Regnault waiting is a very poor choice.”

 

In the kitchen introductions are made; Claudia shakes d’Artagnan’s hand briskly, and pulls Athos into her arms to kiss his cheeks. She keeps up a barrage of questions and comments: How long are you staying? Olivier’s message just said you’d be coming for a few days. Why haven’t you had Denis start the furnace? Where are you from, Charles? I looked in the refrigerator, is it you who’s been cooking? It wouldn’t be this one, he never set foot in a kitchen if it wasn’t to steal dessert.

Athos answers the questions and takes the abuse with equanimity, sitting at the table and watching as Claudia efficiently trims a rack of lamb. D’Artagnan is amazed. Not only has the woman clearly known Athos his entire life, Athos is also clearly at ease with her. He lets her touch him, laugh at him, criticize him; when Claudia says that she’s brought a couple kilos of oysters and left them on ice in the refrigerator, giving Athos a pointed look before adding, “Not that I suppose you need them,” he actually  _blushes._

It’s delightful. It’s dizzying. Is this what Athos was like before, before everything?

Claudia gives d’Artagnan detailed instructions on what to do, the next day, with the things she’s prepped; she pronounces his understanding adequate and gives his back a warm little rub. His stomach seizes up tight.

“It is so good to see you here, Olly,” Claudia says as she washes up, and this time the woman’s voice is low and sincere, heavy with emotion. “You don’t come back enough. I saw Cécile’s mother in the market this morning—“

Athos drops his head, nodding. “I know. I met Cece for a drink today,” he says, and it sounds for the world like he’s asking forgiveness.

“That’s good. You should see her more often.” Claudia turns off the sink and wipes her hands on her apron. “You know Tommy would want that.”

At the mention of Athos’ brother d’Artagnan finds himself holding his breath; he has no idea how Athos will react. But Athos just gives Claudia a watery smile.

“I know,” he says.

She folds him to her bosom like a child, and Athos holds on tight for a moment before stepping back abruptly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

“It really is freezing in here,” he says, as if noticing for the first time. “I’m going to call Denis and see if he can make it out tonight to get the heat on.” He nods at them both and then turns on his heel, striding out of the kitchen as he jabs at his phone.

“Denis,” Claudia says, continuing to tidy the workspace, “is my brother-in-law. My sister’s husband. He got me a job cleaning here when I was nineteen, and newly married. He was one of the groundskeepers, at that point, he was only twenty-five himself.”

D’Artagnan smiles and nods, unsure of where this is going. Claudia looks at him with a speculative eye.

“That woman Olly married. She fired us all. Every single one of us, after years of working for this family, generations, for some. And Olly let her. He and Tommy had a terrible falling out over it.” She pauses, and puts her hands on the worktop, as if bracing herself. “It took a long time to forgive him. It took a long time to understand how she… How he wasn’t himself, how she twisted him.”

“I would never–“ d’Artagnan begins, but Claudia cuts him off.

“Don’t.” The woman’s bright, shrewd eyes fix on his face, searching. “Don’t make that kind of promise. Oh, I know you believe it,” she says when d’Artagnan makes a noise of protest, “but we so rarely know what lines we’ll cross, until we’re already on the other side.” 

He glances at the door. Somehow it’s easy to say to this stranger, the word he hasn’t even allowed himself to think before now. “I love him,” he says quietly. “All I want for him is… peace.”

“Mmm,” she says, following his look before turning to gather her things. “Perhaps you do.”

Athos comes back a moment later, as Claudia is buttoning up her coat. “Denis is on his way,” he says, toying with his phone. “I’m so sorry to have him out here so late, and on Christmas Eve…”

“Don’t be stupid,” Claudia says. “You know he’s glad to help. He’s so happy you’re here, didn’t he tell you?”

Athos shrugs. “He said so, but I hated to ask—“

“Olivier Jean-Michel d’Athos de la Fère,” Claudia says, her voice a whip crack in the air. D’Artagnan can’t suppress a flinch.

“Yes, madame,” Athos says meekly.

“Accept the help. Do you understand me?” Claudia stares at him, hands on her hips, until he nods. “All right. I’m going. Charles, it is perfectly all right to call tomorrow if you have any questions about the food. Happy Christmas, it was lovely to meet you.”

“And you as well,” he answers obediently; he’s a little afraid she’s going to yell at him, too. But she surprises him; she rounds the table and kisses his cheek, giving his arm a squeeze.

“I’ll walk you to the car,” Athos offers, holding out his elbow. Claudia takes it with the smile of a woman who has gotten precisely what she wants.

D’Artagnan can’t hear what she says to him at the kitchen door, putting her silver-haired head close to his dark one, but it makes Athos nod, half-smiling, and pull her closer.

Denis, the caretaker, arrives moments later: a bearded, weather-beaten man of at least seventy, cigarette dangling from his lip as he talks to Athos. D’Artagnan can’t fully understand him, he’s either got a heavy Northern accent or he’s actually speaking Picard, but he does get the gist of it.

The furnace was cleaned at the beginning of December, he is explaining, and there’s plenty of oil. They should expect the house to heat up slowly; it’ll take a while, with so many rooms. Since it’s going to be cold overnight, they should light a fire in the bedroom, and keep it going hot all night long.

At the last Denis grins, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and pinching it between his fingers, while Athos groans, covering his eyes with his hand. D’Artagnan gets it a second later, and bursts out laughing.

“You are a filthy old man,” Athos says, no real admonition in his voice.

“I like him,” d’Artagnan declares, and gets a rough pat on the back for it. He beams.

“Stay by me, I will tell you everything,” Denis says to d’Artagnan, eyes twinkling. “All the secrets. Did you know, when Olly was a boy, he wanted to be a detective. He would line up the dogs in the yard and question them about their crimes.”

“That is quite enough,” Athos cuts in, but he’s grinning, actually grinning. “Isn’t Madame Vizet expecting you back?”

Denis shrugs. “Eh, wives are always expecting something.”

There’s a moment, a breath, where d’Artagnan thinks that everything is going to come crashing down from that loaded word:  _wives_. Denis seems to realize what he’s said a second later, the brightness of his expression starting to fade, but Athos snorts, and claps him on the shoulder.

“And yours probably knows better than to expect much from you,” he says.

“My Caroline is a saint,” Denis agrees, taking off his cap and putting it over his heart. “So yes, I will return to her as soon as I’m done downstairs.”

Athos follows Denis, the pair of them sniping and trash-talking the whole way. D’Artagnan breathes out a sigh, and puts the kettle on for tea.

When Athos returns about fifteen minutes later, he's alone, hands in his pockets and a far-off look on his face. D'Artagnan feels his heart seize up with fondness. 

This is what he wanted, he thinks, taking his cup of tea in one hand and Athos’ fingers in the other. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs Athos behind him into the sitting room, where the fire has gone out but the tree lights still twinkle, along with the electric candles in the windows. He pushes Athos down into the chair by the fireplace, and hands over his cup before crouching down to rebuild the fire.

“I’ll do that,” Athos says, sitting forward, and d’Artagnan shakes his head.

“No, I’ll take care of it.” There are a couple of live coals among the ashes; he blows gently on them, feeding thin bits of kindling into the tiny flames until they begin to grow. He's got a good base built up when Athos finally speaks again.

“We still need to. There was a conversation we started, and we need to finish it.”

D’Artagnan glances up over his shoulder. Athos is on the edge of the seat, twisting the cup in his hands; the soft look has gone out of his eyes and d’Artagnan hates it, he hates it so much. When he said to Claudia that he wanted peace for Athos, it was this expression he was thinking of. He wants to never see it again, to cut it out like a tumor. 

“Drink my tea, you’ll feel better,” he says, adding a couple of larger sticks to the fire. The bark smolders a moment and then catches. 

“You put in too much sugar,” Athos says.

“You could use a little sugar.” It’s not at all difficult to smile up at Athos, and there it is again, that feeling like his heart is in someone’s fist, being crushed to bursting like an overripe tomato. He reaches out and rubs the first part of Athos that he can touch – his shin, it turns out. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I’m sorry I was jealous.”

“No, you were right,” Athos sighs, sitting back at last. He takes a long swallow of tea, and makes a face. “Ugh. No. You, I did… I didn’t tell you. I should’ve told you.”

“There is a lot you should’ve told me,” d’Artagnan says frankly. “But it’s all right. We can talk about it tomorrow. Or… the day after. We can talk about it soon.”

The fire is burning merrily now, and he adjusts the damper, carefully drops a heavier log across the back of the andirons. It should burn well for a while. He shifts to his knees, and closes the distance between the hearth and Athos’ chair, settling between Athos’ legs. He takes the teacup and sets it on the floor, off to the side, and puts his hands on Athos’ thighs.

Athos looks down at him, reaching out to lay the backs of his fingers along d’Artagnan’s cheek. “I hope I didn’t ruin your Christmas,” he says quietly, and d’Artagnan shakes his head.

“I’m going to need you to stop talking now,” he says, turning to lick over Athos’ thumb.

“You like it when I talk.”

“Mmm.” D’Artagnan sucks Athos’ thumb into his mouth for a few seconds, then draws off with a scrape of teeth that makes Athos hiss. “Not tonight,” he says against Athos’ palm. “Tonight? Shut up.”

 

It's unbearably hot when d'Artagnan wakes around 3 am. He's kicked free of most of the heavy layers of blankets but the sheet is glued to his body with sweat; he's sat up and peeled it off before he realizes that Athos isn't in bed. He has time to feel a spike of panic just before the door creaks open, and Athos comes in with two bottles of water. The candle in the window casts just enough light to see.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" he asks quietly.  "I went to turn the thermostat down." 

"No, I was just too hot." D'Artagnan gets up and meets Athos by his side of the bed. He takes one of the bottles and cracks it open for a long drink.

"Denis left it set at 25°, I don't know why I didn't notice at the time." Athos puts the other bottle down on the bedside table, rests his hands lightly on d'Artagnan's hips. Athos had pulled on some pajama pants to go downstairs, but d'Artagnan is still naked, and Athos lets his hands drift, down the planes of d'Artagnan's upper thighs, back around and up over his ass.

D'Artagnan smiles, bumping his lips against Athos'. "Technically it's Christmas morning," he says. He puts his own drink aside, fingers tugging at the drawstring of Athos' pants. "Which means it's time to open presents, no?"

It reminds him of their first night together, Athos going down on him while fingering him open, but it's not really the same at all. He's been given no orders, not even a _shh_ ; he's free to twist and moan, to grab at Athos' hair and arch up into Athos' mouth. His hole is still deliciously soft and sore from the night before, and Athos' fingers aren't nearly enough. 

"More," he grunts, pushing at Athos' head. "Please, I need–"

Athos pulls off with a spit-slick sound, lifting his head to catch d'Artagnan's eyes, his own black in the dimness. "Do you want my hand?" he offers, his voice wrecked. He curls his fingers, and d'Artagnan groans at both the touch and the thought. 

"God, oh. No, no, not. Not, just fuck me, Athos, please."

Athos nods, and shakes his sweaty hair out of his face; he pulls his fingers free as he sits back on his heels. "Just–"

D'Artagnan watches Athos moving, the way his shoulders flex and his abs ripple as he twists and leans over d'Artagnan for the box of condoms on the bedside table. He's balanced on his knees between d'Artagnan's spread thighs, his cock hard and the tip dragging wetly over d'Artagnan's belly. D'Artagnan puts a hand on his chest. 

"Just fuck me," he whispers. 

Sweat falls from Athos' brow onto d'Artagnan's lips, and Athos stares down at him as d'Artagnan licks it away.

"Don't," Athos says at last, reaching the last little bit to catch a packet between his fingers. "Don't offer me that."

He grabs Athos' arm before Athos can shift back and away; it upsets Athos' balance, and he lands heavily across d'Artagnan's chest. When he pushes himself back up, it brings their hips together, shoves their cocks together, and they both groan.

"Please," d'Artagnan begs. Now that he has hold of the idea he can't think of anything else. "Is there any reason not to? Do you know something I don't?"

Athos shakes his head. "It's not—"

"Because I'm, I'm good, I’m safe," he says, pressing his lips to Athos cheek, his jaw, his chin. "If there's a reason, tell me."

Athos kisses him roughly, palming his face; they rock together again, and d'Artagnan thinks maybe they'll just finish like this. That would be fine, if that's what Athos wants, but if Athos is just scared? He hates that. He hates the idea that anything, anyone, hurt Athos enough to make him feel like that.

"Let me trust you," d'Artagnan murmurs against Athos' mouth. "Let me in."

When Athos pulls back this time, d'Artagnan thinks maybe he's gone too far, asked for too much; Athos' expression is hard to read. He puts his hands on d'Artagnan's thighs, looks down at him in silence for so long that d'Artagnan almost starts to fidget.

"Are you sure?" he asks at last, and there's something so painfully hopeful in his voice that d'Artagnan wants to sob.

He nods. "Yeah."

"Say it so I know for sure," Athos demands.

D'Artagnan links his arms around Athos’ neck. "Green," he says, "green, Athos, _please_." 

There’s another breathless pause, another long moment where d’Artagnan isn’t sure if he’s judged this wrong, but then Athos crashes down on him again, his kiss fierce and furious. 

“You make me crazy,” Athos growls, breaking away and leaving d’Artagnan gasping. “Christ, I love you so much.” 

“Y-you,” d’Artagnan stutters, too stunned to reply. It turns out not to matter; Athos just kisses him, again and again, not leaving room or breath for any more words. 

And when Athos is finally inside him, feeling so much hotter and bigger than ever before, when Athos is fucking into him and d’Artagnan is clawing up his back, all he can do is choke and moan. There aren’t words for it, for how good it feels, how overwhelming. There’s nothing between them; there’s nothing but Athos, and d’Artagnan doesn’t want anything else. 

They still don’t speak after, beyond gentle murmurs: a soothing noise from Athos when he pulls out, a contented sigh from d’Artagnan when he’s dragged Athos down beside him. He presses himself against Athos, cheek on Athos’ chest, listening to the heartbeat under his ear slow and finally settle into a steady rhythm while Athos pets his hair with ever-shortening strokes. Eventually his hand stills too, curled in the hair at the back of d’Artagnan’s neck, and d’Artagnan, assured that Athos is at last asleep, lets himself go too. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

The next time they wake Christmas has dawned foggy, bitter, and damp; d’Artagnan thinks it’ll probably rain, and crosses the possibility of a Christmas Day swim off his list. He makes coffee and crepes instead, loads the crepes up with whipped cream and chunky strawberry preserves, and they eat on the floor by the fire in the sitting room, sharing a single plate, and a blanket from the bed. 

There are two packages under the tree that were obviously not there the night before, carefully wrapped in gold paper with white bows of real ribbon. He knows without asking that they’re for him. Athos doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge the boxes; he does softly mention that they don’t really have to be back in Paris for four more days, they could stay, or they could go anywhere else that d’Artagnan might like. D’Artagnan hums noncommittally; he leans back against Athos and drinks his coffee. 

His head is so full, there is so much he needs to think about, so much they should discuss, but d’Artagnan doesn’t bring up any of it. He doesn’t feel the same urgency as he did the day before, that choking feeling, like all the things unknown and unsaid were pressing down on his chest. He feels like they have more time now, that even though a day has passed, the future has gotten bigger. 

At last Athos shifts behind him, and clears his throat as he makes a gesture toward the tree. “I got you, ah. A couple things. If you’d like to open them.” 

“I wish I’d known,” d’Artagnan answers. He turns his head to look up at Athos. “I guess, I thought we weren’t doing that? I didn’t think we were… doing that.” 

Athos shrugs. “I wanted to. I wanted your Christmas to be nice.” 

He sounds slightly defensive and d’Artagnan sits up, shifts himself around so that he can put his arms around Athos’ neck and draw him into a kiss. “My Christmas is very nice,” he says, and Athos smiles. 

“Open your presents,” he says, giving d’Artagnan a push. 

The smaller box holds a sweater, a black cashmere turtleneck, just right for work. D’Artagnan knows without checking that it will be a flawless fit, that it will be light but warm, and that he’ll be tempted to wear it every day. He doesn’t own anything else nearly as nice. “It’s perfect,” he says, running his fingers over the soft fabric. 

The large box is so heavy that d’Artagnan can’t quite lift it from the floor while sitting; it’s got to be over 20 kilos. He ends up just kneeling beside it and pulling the paper away, until he can read the side of the box. 

It’s Myhrvold’s _Modernist Cuisine_ , the whole six-volume set in a Plexiglas case. He looks up at Athos, and Athos has this horrible, hopeful look on his face that d’Artagnan’s never seen before. He stares, helpless. 

“You hate it,” Athos says finally, his face shuttering. 

“I do not hate it,” d’Artagnan says immediately, putting a possessive hand on the box. “I just… I don’t know what to _say_.” 

“Thank you?” Athos suggests, brows drawing together. “Or not, if you don’t like it. You don’t have to say you do. I’m sorry there’s no French edition, I asked. But I can take it back, if you don’t—“

“Please stop talking,” d’Artagnan says, and Athos actually does. 

He crawls back across the floor between the tree and where Athos sits, leaning on the front of the chair; he climbs into Athos’ lap and cups Athos’ face in his hands. “I love it,” he says, making sure Athos is meeting his eyes. “These are the nicest things anyone has ever given to me, and yes, I am a little freaked out by the expense—“

“I don’t care about the money,” Athos interrupts. “I didn’t pick it because it was expensive, I just want you to have… I want you to have things you want. I want you to have things that make you happy.” 

“But what about you?” d’Artagnan argues, even as his heart climbs into his throat. “I can’t give back to you anything you want, I can’t afford… I can’t even afford anything you _don’t_ want, let alone nice things like you’re used to.” 

“I don’t _want_ things from you.” Athos grabs hold of d’Artagnan’s wrists, and turns his face into d’Artagnan’s palm, pressing a warm kiss there. “I don’t want _things_. I don’t need anything, I already.” He stops, and shakes his head. “How do you not know how much you give me?”

D’Artagnan leans in and kisses him, and Athos allows it briefly, before pulling back again. 

“I mean it,” he says, letting go d’Artagnan’s hands to brush his own fingers over d’Artagnan’s brow. “I could give you a gift every hour of every day and it still wouldn’t come close to even.” 

The urge to keep arguing wars with the urge to kiss him for saying something so horribly romantic; d’Artagnan shakes his head and does the latter, not stopping until they’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. He laughs, steals another kiss, and another, until Athos is smiling. 

“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you for this, for the trip, for the books, for the tree, for _everything_.”

Athos spreads his hands across the small of d’Artagnan’s back; he shrugs, but he’s still smiling. “I wanted to.”

“Isn’t there something I can do?” d’Artagnan asks. He teases his fingers down Athos’ chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin t-shirt he’s wearing. “Is there something you want to… do? To try, like, with me? Maybe something you didn’t want to ask for?”

The change that comes over Athos’ face is remarkable; he goes from smiling, warm, his blue eyes bright with affection, to pale and shaken. He gives d’Artagnan a gentle but firm push off his lap, taking in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. 

“Athos?” 

“Please.” Athos wipes his hand over his mouth, over his beard, before balling that hand into a fist in his lap. “Please don’t ever ask me that… like that. All right?”

“All right,” d’Artagnan agrees, putting a cautious hand on Athos’ knee. “Will you please tell me why?” 

Athos scrubs at his beard again, stares up at the Christmas tree for several seconds before he slowly nods and climbs to his feet, holding out his hand for d’Artagnan. “I said I would tell you. That there were things you needed to know. That’s as good a place to start as any.” 

“Where are we going?” d’Artagnan asks, taking Athos’ hand and levering himself up. 

“Upstairs. I want to show you something.” 

Athos leads him to a set of double doors at the far end of the upper hall, the opposite end from the rooms where they have been staying. He wiggles the doorknob as he pushes at them. “It’s not locked,” he says, the works inside the knob rattling. “There’s just a trick to it. This was my parents’ room, and mine after theirs. Better than a lock, my mother always said. Anybody coming in would have to make a hell of a lot of noise—ah.” 

The doors pop open, one hitting the wall inside with a bang. 

It’s just a bedroom, d’Artagnan thinks. Larger than most, certainly with better furniture and a better view, but just a bedroom. The bed is a wide and high iron four-poster, with a bench at the foot. Like the downstairs rooms, most of contents are covered, but here the dust is thick, coating every surface, turning the dark floorboards gray. Athos flips the cover off the bench and sneezes twice before he sits. 

“I haven’t been in here in… seven years? No one has, as far as I know. I asked them to just… leave it.” 

D’Artagnan takes a few more steps into the room. The dust is slippery under his bare feet. There are cobwebs hanging in the corners, from the drapes, like moss. 

“I was in my third year of active duty, I was… 27? My parents died in a car crash. My father was driving drunk, as usual.” Athos looks down, and smoothes his hand over the upholstery of the bench. “It’s a miracle they hadn’t been killed long before, or killed someone else. They were far from perfect people, but I loved my parents. I’m named for my mother, you know. Olivia d’Athos. She was a painter, she. We were very close.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Athos nods, looking back up at d’Artagnan with a brittle smile. “So we have that in common. I should’ve told you, it’s stupid that I never told you. My parents died, and I got a special discharge from the army, some friend of the family worked it out for me, and I came home and tried to do what I thought they would’ve wanted.” He licks his lips, gaze drifting off to some unseen point in the middle distance. “And I was shit at it.”

“And then?” d’Artagnan prompts softly, crossing the rest of the distance between them to sit beside Athos on the bench. Athos catches his hand, and tangles their fingers together; he leans back on the bedpost with a sigh. 

“The bulk of my family’s business is investment banking, financial planning, that sort of thing. Money markets. Real estate investment. My father was CEO and my uncle Simon was CFO… they were a great team. And Tommy and my cousin worked closely with them, starting when they teenagers. There was an interim CFO for about six months after Simon died, he was younger but he died of cancer two years before my parents did. Then my cousin bullied the board into appointing her to his place, which was...” Athos stops and glances at d’Artagnan, who nods in encouragement. 

“Sorry,” Athos says anyway, giving d’Artagnan’s palm a little rub with the side of his thumb. “The point being, Mimi and Tommy and my father were running things while I was off playing soldiers, I had absolutely no business doing what I did, because I know absolutely fuck all about banking, let alone running a fucking corporation. But when our parents died, I insisted that I should take over. And Tommy backed me up; Tommy kept arguing for me, he said that putting me in charge was what Dad would’ve wanted, even though he knew it was a terrible idea. And I did my best. But after just a few months, even he couldn’t pretend that I had had any clue what I was doing. I wasn’t just not helping, I was actively damaging everything my family, my father, had worked so hard for. So I very quietly resigned, and Tommy was very quietly installed where he should’ve been all along.”

It is possibly the longest speech d’Artagnan has ever heard Athos make that wasn’t a dressing down or smutty pillow talk. He squeezes Athos’ hand, and Athos squeezes back. 

“I had loved being in the military. Saint-Cyr was amazing for me. I had something to do, I had a purpose. And I was _good_ at it. My parents were not much for discipline. We were spoiled and indulged and told we could have anything we wanted just because we wanted it. Which sounds like heaven to a child, except it left both of us at a loss for meaning, as we got older. Moreso me than Tommy – Tommy had the business and he had Cece. I just… needed something more. Saint-Cyr and the army gave me that. And Saint-Cyr is where I met Samir.” 

The name makes Athos smile faintly, and d’Artagnan feels an echo of it on his own face. “Tell me about him?” 

“Samir was.” Athos pauses. “The shortest version of the story is that he introduced me to parts of myself that I was unaware of. Or rather, that I was aware of, but didn’t have names for. He was a great, patient, gifted teacher.” 

“What happened to him?” d’Artagnan asks, cautious. 

“Hm? Nothing. He was an instructor, I was a cadet, it wasn’t ever going to be more than it was. It was completely inappropriate, of course, against all the rules, but. It was good. It was _so good_. It felt so right.” 

Athos closes his eyes, his hand tightening on d’Artagnan’s for a moment. D’Artagnan waits, not wanting to push; he can, he thinks, feel the ends of the thread that connects this story to this room, but he doesn’t want to assume, either. He leans in, instead, and presses his shoulder to Athos’. It means he can’t see Athos’ expression, but when Athos puts his arm around him and pulls him close, he knows it was right.

“So when I came back from the army, when I tried and failed to lead the company, when I found myself with nothing at all to do,” Athos says, and takes a deep breath. “I tried to find someone like Samir. Someone who could give me purpose. And instead I found Anne.” 

That name, in this context, in this  _place_ , coming from Athos’ mouth, makes the hair stand up on d’Artagnan’s arms.  

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever know how much of our meeting was chance,” Athos says after a short pause, and shakes his head. “None of it, probably. She walked up to me in a bar and started flirting. I told her she wasn’t really my type. She said let me guess, you prefer blondes? And I said no, I prefer men. And you know, she backed off immediately. Didn’t apologize, just said it was bad luck, because she’d already made a list of terrible things she would’ve done to me.” 

D’Artagnan presses his lips together. It’s worse, he thinks, because he can hear her, he can guess exactly what she looked like, how she sounded. He suppresses a shiver. 

“That was it. That was all it took, just planting that suggestion. I was so depressed and so… alone. It took root immediately. A week or so later, in the same bar, there she was. This wasn’t a, a scene place, just a regular bar I liked. She was sitting at a table and dropped her compact. She snapped her fingers at the man she was with and he got to his knees right there to pick it up. She patted him like a good dog and his eyes practically rolled back in his head. But at the end of the night she was alone, and I’d drank enough courage, so I went up to her and said, tell me more about that list of terrible things.”

Athos gives a short, dry laugh, and d’Artagnan feels himself finally grabbing that thread that’s been dangling just out of reach. “You were. Like me, you were. Hers.”  

“I what?” Athos asks, and then he nods slowly. “Oh. Yes.” He pauses, and scratches at some invisible spot on his pant leg with his thumbnail. “Samir once explained to me that in his philosophy, anyone should be able to play either role, dominant or submissive, because his belief was that in both roles, it's about serving and nurturing the other person. It’s all about giving. You might be a better fit for one or the other, and one might be more, more sexually gratifying to you than the other, but they are in essence the same thing. Which I thought was bullshit, to be honest, until I met you.” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he leans in and kisses Athos instead, laying his hand on Athos’ cheek. Just a warm press of lips, an offering of comfort.

“I wasn’t, though. I wasn’t like you. I used to think all I was good for was taking it,” Athos says bluntly into the space between their mouths. “My sense of self had been so upended—I was a good leader in the army, and terrible one in the real world. I’d let people down, I’d let my family down. She saw that, somehow, that I was looking for punishment. For someone to make me crawl, and grovel, and obey. And that was what she used.” 

D’Artagnan feels like he’s been slapped. It’s not the idea of Athos submissive that’s so shocking, but the idea of Athos _humiliated._ He tips his head onto Athos’ shoulder, and Athos squeezes him for a moment, and then disengages, getting to his feet to pace the room. Little puffs of dust rise up from each step. 

“It wasn’t all in to the deep end on the first go. I’d never been with a woman before, there was a bit of a… learning curve.”  He huffs, shaking his head. “She taught me how to please her, and I liked being on my knees enough that it got me off, too. She could put me under like.” He snaps his fingers. “And it felt amazing. That’s how people like this get you, you know. Make you feel special, like what you have is this secret, just between you. They tell you how perfect you are, how lost they would be without you. How they are the only one who understands you. She asked what I liked and we did that. She asked if there was anything else I wanted, anything I’d been afraid to ask for? But all the while she’d been making her own suggestions. Making them seem like they made sense. Making them seem like they were my own ideas. If I liked being tied with a rope, why not try shackles? If I liked being gagged with a cloth, why not try a bit?” 

The look on Athos’ face is terrible. It’s all that d’Artagnan can do not to stand up and go after him, but there is something in the restlessness of his movement that keeps d’Artagnan seated, digging his own fingertips into his legs as Athos continues to explain. 

“It made sense at the time. Why would I let her do all these things if I didn’t like them? Why should I safeword out when she, she hurt me, I’d asked for it, after all.” He stops, crossing his arms and cupping his elbows, staring out the window. “Things started to pick up speed after a few months. She suggested getting married and I didn’t even blink. I thought it was brilliant.  I thought… she was the only woman I’d ever felt attracted to, what else could it be but something transcendent?”

It’s the way that Athos is hugging himself that makes d’Artagnan decide that he can’t let this go on another moment, the way he looks suddenly fragile and small, there in front of the window. D’Artagnan gets up and puts his hand in the middle of Athos’ back, giving him a little push toward the door. 

“Come on,” he says. “Enough.” 

Athos balks. “I need to tell you the rest.” 

“It’s not going anywhere,” d’Artagnan says, rubbing between Athos’ shoulders. “It doesn’t change anything, and you are still. You are still the man I love.” 

He’d said it to Claudia, but thought he should still keep it to himself; and it wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed Athos’ confession the night before, but people say a lot of things when they’re fucking. He’d thought that if Athos didn’t mention it again, he wasn’t going to bring it up either. Both decisions seem stupid now, as Athos stares at him with undisguised wonder. D’Artagnan cracks a weak smile. 

“Can we just go… anywhere but this room?” he asks. “Please?” 

Athos looks like he’s going to argue at first, then his body goes slack, and he nods. He lets d’Artagnan steer him out into the hall, then takes a deep breath and turns back to pull the doors shut. They scrape heavily into place.  


 

D'Artagnan gently bullies Athos through a hot shower and getting dressed, then installs him on the sofa in the room with the tree, iPad in one hand and coffee in the other. He tells Athos he's going to be in the kitchen, getting dinner together, gambling that being warm, clean and comfortable will lead to something like relaxation. He's right: the first time he checks on Athos, after the lamb is in the oven, the man is fast asleep. 

He doesn’t often get to observe Athos like this. Athos awake is Athos alert; even when he’s been drinking, he’s still usually on guard. At home he’s less tightly wound, but the fact that he’s calm doesn’t mean that he’s peaceful. Sleep is transformative, softening the hard angles of his face, making his limbs fall loose and languid. D’Artagnan brushes a kiss to Athos’ temple, and returns to the kitchen. 

They eat around two, after Athos has woken again. He tries to apologize for falling asleep, and then for ruining the holiday with his ‘sad, stupid story;’ d’Artagnan presses a glass of wine into his hand, and tells him to sit down and shut up.  Athos raises an eyebrow, but he does what he’s told. It’s dangerous, d’Artagnan thinks as he lays out the food on the kitchen table. He could get used to that sort of easy compliance. 

But then what would that leave for him? It would, he muses, turn sour very quickly. D’Artagnan has never wanted power, only not to be helpless. 

He puts a single place setting in front of Athos, and catches his eye, catches the moment when Athos understands. D’Artagnan smiles, and goes to the floor beside Athos’ chair. 

“Happy Christmas,” d’Artagnan says, looking up at Athos. His heart is pounding, but he can’t stop smiling. “I love you.” 

Athos nods, leans down and cups the back of d’Artagnan’s head. “You too,” he whispers roughly, the words more than half kiss. 

D’Artagnan bumps his forehead against Athos’ before they part, then settles himself closer, his cheek on Athos’ knee. “Start with the roasted oysters,” he suggests. “They turned out perfect.” 

 

They go for a walk after dinner, a slow tramp around the grounds, through the gardens and around the pond. Athos holds d’Artagnan’s gloved hand in his, and with the other points out locations of interest: the pear tree he fell out of when he was eight, breaking his left arm in two places; the hedge behind which he kissed the groundskeeper’s son when he was thirteen. They cut through a field and over a stone wall, walk the long, winding lane between the main road and the house, and Athos tells him how he learned to drive there, in his father’s creaky old Diesse. 

They are almost back at the house when d’Artagnan hears a car behind them; for a moment he thinks he’s imagining it, but then Athos turns, tugging him to the side of the road. The sun is mostly down and the mist has thickened again, it’s hard to see anything but headlights slowly approaching. D’Artagnan leans into Athos’ side, and Athos swears. 

It’s the red car from yesterday, it’s Athos’ friend’s car. Cécile, his memory supplies, as she slows down beside them, and makes a gesture at Athos behind the closed window. Athos points up the lane; she nods and drives on. Athos heaves a sigh. 

“Apparently you get to meet Cécile,” he says, sounding like a man headed for the gallows. “Happy fucking Christmas.” 

Cécile has let herself in through the kitchen door and is cutting a piece of leftover lamb from the serving platter when they come in. She picks it up between immaculately manicured fingers and eats the chop straight off the bone, moaning with pleasure as she swallows. 

“That is incredible,” she says, licking her fingers and then wiping them on her jeans. “Can I have another? Did Claudia cook for you?”

“No, I did,” d’Artagnan says, hanging his coat on the hook inside the door and peeling off his gloves. He drops them and his scarf on the bench inside the door. Athos has done the same; he walks over to Cécile and takes the knife out of her hand. 

“You are a pig,” he tells her. 

“And you have the manners of a goat,” she answers cheerfully, offering her still slightly greasy hand to d’Artagnan. “Cécile Raymond. You must be d’Artagnan.”

“Yes, I am,” he confirms. She has the handshake of a soldier, brisk and knuckle-crushing; it’s at odds with the diamonds on her fingers, and her girlish smile, just as sparkling. He can’t help but smile back. 

She’s even more stunning up close than he’d thought the evening before, her brown skin nearly luminous. She looks like a movie star, he thinks. 

“Where’s the American?” Athos asks, his expression sulky. He circles the table and goes to the stove, hefting the kettle to check how full it is. Apparently satisfied with what he finds, he turns on the burner and goes to rinse the cafetière in the sink. 

“Back at the house, being fleeced at cards by Maman, Papa and Oncle Antoine. He always falls for it. It’s quite sad.” Cécile follows Athos across the room, taking down three cups from the correct cupboard without having to ask. 

“He’s very pretty,” Athos agrees. 

“Olly hates my husband,” she says over her shoulder to d’Artagnan.

“Hate is such a strong word.” Athos shakes water off the cafetière pieces, and leans to put them beside the stove; Cécile goes behind him, and grabs the canister of coffee that’s still out from the morning. It’s like watching a well-rehearsed dance, one you know has been performed countless times before: the way they move around each other through the space, making room without prompting. “I’d say ‘disdain.’”

“Apparently, I married below my station.” She scoops coffee into the pot. 

“I never said that.” The kettle starts to whistle; he steps behind her and flicks the burner off. She picks up the kettle and pours. 

“You said hearing him speak French made your soul shrivel like a salted slug.” 

“ _American_ , Cécile.” Athos puts his hands on his hips. “Hi, I’m _Dave_ ,” he says in flat, terrible, American-accented French. “I like trucker hats and cargo shorts and football. This is my first time in PARE-iss, so we’re going to see NOTER _Dayyme_.” 

Cécile is laughing so hard that she has to brace herself on the stove, and d’Artagnan allows himself to join in a little, at Athos’ impression if nothing else. Whatever Athos’ problem with her husband actually is, it doesn’t seem like it’s anything to do with him being the guy who came after Athos’ brother. 

Athos glances over and grins at d’Artagnan, wide and uninhibited, pleased with his joke, and d’Artagnan feels like he’s been kicked in the face with how much he loves him, right in this moment. 

They bicker on for several minutes, barely stopping for breath between increasingly bitchy comments. They have an honest to god slap-fight over how strong the coffee should be, Cécile winning when she manages to dart an arm past Athos to slam the plunger down. He calls her a sow, but pours out three cups. 

“Sugar?” Cécile offers, turning toward d’Artagnan with the bowl in hand; before he can answer, Athos has taken it from her. 

“Just milk for him,” Athos says, adding one teaspoon to his own cup. Cécile looks stunned. 

“So this is serious, then,” she says, pointing back and forth between the two men. 

It is, d’Artagnan thinks, feeling his face heat, but Athos scowls at her. 

“What are you talking about?” he snaps, handing d’Artagnan the other cup. 

“Olly, you have no idea how I take my coffee. We’ve known each other since we were five, I _just did it right in front of you_ , but if you can tell me what I put in this cup I’ll give you a hundred Euro right now. My wallet is in the car.” 

Athos’ expression twists even further. “Yes,” he says, looking like he’s got a mouthful of lemon. “It’s very serious, I told you yesterday, don’t play like we didn’t already have this conversation.” 

He comes back to the table, touching d’Artagnan’s elbow and nodding at the chairs they’d left pulled out after dinner. They sit, and Cécile is right behind, sitting across from Athos with her elbows on the table. 

“The last time you memorized someone’s drink,” she says bluntly, “it was because she’d leave you chained to the bedpost half the day if you fucked it up.”

D’Artagnan winces. Beside him, Athos’ coffee cup thumps deliberately to the tabletop. 

“I am not playing, Cécile,” he says, voice flat and cold. “If you’re here to check up, if you’re here to see if everything I told you yesterday is true, then go home. You’re wasting your time.” 

“I hope I’m wasting my time.” There is nothing at all of the goofy, glamorous woman of the past twenty minutes in Cécile’s face now. D’Artagnan wonders vaguely what she does for a living. 

“And you are wasting _our_ time,” Athos goes on like she hadn’t spoken. “I don’t get so many holidays that I can afford to entertain your petty bullshit.” 

“Oh, it’s bullshit?” Cécile looks at d’Artagnan. “Do you know? Do you know how it went, before?” 

“I know enough,” d’Artagnan says, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter that most of what he knows, he learned in the past five hours. “And I’ve already had this same talk from Claudia, thanks. I know that promising you I’m nothing like Anne won’t mean anything to you.” 

“No, it wouldn’t.” 

“D’Artagnan.” Athos gives him a warning look, and he shakes his head again. 

“I can speak for myself,” he says. “And I appreciate, I really do, that you love Athos enough to be worried. But consider the fact that you don’t trust me because you don’t know anything about me. To me the most important part of that is, _you don’t know anything about me._ So, I’m right here.” He shrugs. “Ask me anything. Start by asking me what Anne did to _me_ , since you already know what she did to him.” 

In the silence, d’Artagnan can hear a drop of water from the faucet hitting the bottom of the sink. 

“No,” Athos says finally, sliding his hand up d’Artagnan’s back, a grounding touch, d’Artagnan thinks, for both of them. “No, you don’t have to—.” 

“I don’t have any use for lies and manipulations,” he says over Athos’ words, watching Cécile’s expression. “Athos was my friend before he was my lover. I don’t have any secrets from him. And if he has a few from me, it doesn’t matter. I cannot think of a single thing he could’ve ever done that would make me love him any less. So, if you’re still not satisfied? I don’t think I have anything more to say to you.” 

Cécile sits back, her mouth pressed into a hard line. He thinks at first that she’s angry, until he sees the wet shimmer at the corner of her eye. 

“Imagine,” she says slowly, her voice cracking a little on the word. “Imagine. Your best friend is drowning in a pool right in front of you. And when he bobs up he says, _I’m fine._ And you reach out to him but he just slaps your hand away. And he comes up again and you yell, let me help you, and he says, as he’s going down again, _it’s none of your business._ ” 

“Cece,” Athos breathes. “It wasn’t like—“

“Don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t like that,” she snaps, tears streaking bright down one cheek. “Don’t you dare. We tried and tried to find out what was going on. We tried to help you, and you pushed us away. So we said, fine, maybe it isn’t our business, maybe he does have it all under control, we left you to it, and then next thing I knew? Tommy was dead and you might as well have been.” 

Athos swipes at his own eyes, and Cécile looks miserably from him to d’Artagnan.

“I have to ask myself,” she goes on, “all the fucking time, if I could’ve done more. If I could’ve said the right thing, or… pushed harder, or done _something_ to get him out of that fucked up marriage—“

“You couldn’t have,” d’Artagnan says, and he knows it, he _knows_ it down to his bones. He puts his hand on Athos’ thigh and squeezes. “Not because of him, because of her. People like her are, they’re parasites. They suck your life away and you don’t even realize what’s happening until it’s too late. And you can’t get rid of them without hurting the person they’re attached to.” 

Athos rubs his palm over his face. “That is an utterly vile, completely accurate metaphor,” he says quietly. D’Artagnan squeezes his leg again, and he rubs d’Artagnan’s back in response. 

“Don’t blame yourself,” d’Artagnan says, reaching his free hand across the table. “But don’t take it out on me, either. There’s only one person who deserves our anger, and she’s not here, and she never will be again.” 

Cécile catches his fingers, and presses them tightly before letting go. “Easier said.” 

“You never told me you felt that way,” Athos says. “That time, when we talked about… everything. You should’ve said something.” 

She sighs, and takes a long sip from her coffee cup. “That time was not a good time for that conversation.” 

“And this was?” 

“Apparently so.” She looks at d’Artagnan for a moment, then back to Athos. “And while we’re having it, I’m going to tell you again. Stop hating yourself for what Tommy did. Get fucking angry with him like you should’ve done years ago.” 

“What—“ d’Artagnan begins, but the rest of his question is drowned by Athos’ furious snarl. 

“No, no, you are not doing this again—“

Cécile slaps her open hand on the tabletop, making the dinner dishes rattle. “Yes, and you are going to _hear_ me this time.”

“—you, of all people, to blame him—“ Athos barrels on. 

“I of all people,” Cécile practically shouts. “Who else should blame him? Who else is _willing_ to blame him? You treat him like he was a god, and you hang yourself on the cross for him, Olly, fuck that. Get over it. Get. Over it.” 

The silence rings in d’Artagnan’s ears. He can feel Athos’ hand on his back, making a fist in the fabric of his sweater; he can feel Athos trembling with rage. 

“How dare you,” Athos hisses. 

“Because nobody else dares,” Cécile says flatly. “Thomas was my world, Olly. He was my world, and it was a fucked up world sometimes.” She shakes her head, looking from Athos to d’Artagnan. “He’ll tell you about how wonderful Tommy was, and he was. He was brilliant, and kind, most of the time. And he was a charming, spoiled child who nobody ever said no to. Especially women. Women really loved to say yes to Tommy.” 

Athos looks like he’s going to be sick.  
  
“What happened?” d’Artagnan asks, and he’s not sure if he or Cécile is the more surprised when it’s Athos who answers, his voice thick with hurt.

“Tommy liked Anne, in the beginning. He didn’t trust her, he didn’t, actually, trust many people. It’s part of why he was such a good businessman.” The noise Athos makes can’t be called a laugh. “They were always flirting. I wasn’t jealous, I was sure he wouldn’t… I was sure _she_ wouldn’t.” 

“I had no such certainty.” Cécile shakes her head. “I knew who I was with. I was young; I wanted to believe he’d settle down after we were married. He probably wouldn’t have. My mother told me once that if I wanted a faithful man, I shouldn’t marry a Frenchman.” 

“And you took her wise advice,” Athos says, inclining his head.

“Mm.” She takes a drink of her coffee and makes a face; it must be stone cold by now. “I never liked Anne, and she never liked me. It didn’t have much to do with him being flirty with her, it was mostly about how… how fucking _weird_ it was. I’ve known Olly since we were five, and I’ve known he was gay since we were six. And when I tried to talk to you about it, you’d just clam up.”

“I didn’t think you’d understand.” Athos shrugs. “For the record, you didn’t.” 

“For the record,” Cécile fires back, “you didn’t tell me until well after everything had gone to shit.” 

“So what happened?” d’Artagnan prompts again. “I just. Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

“Probably,” Athos says, sounding defeated. 

“Tommy and I were worried about Olly. He was changing, everyone could see it. We both tried to talk to him and he wouldn’t listen. We were both in Paris a lot but every time we’d come up here, it was like you were smaller.” She presses her lips tightly together a moment. “And then one weekend, Tommy came up by himself, and when he got back to Paris he had a black eye and was suddenly adamant that we had to get rid of that woman.” 

“You hit him?” d’Artagnan says, turning to Athos, who shakes his head. 

“No, Anne did.” He rubs his eyes. “I don’t know. I still don’t know, exactly what happened. She told me he tried to kiss her, that he had cornered her upstairs. I didn’t believe her, at first. I didn’t want to believe her. But Tommy had already left, and if he hadn’t done anything, why would he go?”  Athos sighs, and across the table, Cécile echoes it. 

“He didn’t deserve to die,” Athos adds wearily, after a pause. “I was angry, I was hurt, but he didn’t—“ 

“And I have never once said he did, Jesus Christ, Olly. Listen to me. Actually _hear_ me, all right?” She waits for his grudging nod before continuing. “This thing happened. It didn’t happen often, but it wasn’t the first time a woman didn’t fall for the Thomas de la Fère charm, it wasn’t even the first time a woman slapped his face. You know that. And he would’ve cooled down after a few days, and he would’ve been rude and shitty to her for a while, except that was the week that Anne fired the household. Do you not remember that’s how it went?” 

“Maybe,” Athos grunts. D’Artagnan finds his hand under the table, and Athos grips it tightly. 

“Well, it was. Rejecting him was one thing, even how she was treating you wasn’t quite bad enough for him, but when she did that. That’s what made him angry enough to retaliate. Especially Claudia, Olly, you know how close he was to her. You and your _maman_ , she couldn’t help but love you a little bit more, you were so alike.” 

“That’s not my fault.” 

“No. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, you massive idiot. Anne took you, fucked you, used you, made you think you could never say no to her. And Tommy was a philandering shit who loved his family so fiercely... We loved them, you and I, and we’re not at fault for that. We’re allowed to mourn the people we wished they were, and we’re allowed to be angry at the people they turned out to be.” 

Athos covers his face with his hands, leaving d’Artagnan at a loss. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say, if he should do or say anything at all. Cécile looks as exhausted as d’Artagnan feels, and Athos looks worse. Finally, Athos stands, his chair scraping loudly as he pushes away from the table. 

“I need some air,” he announces, touching the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. “I need to think.” 

“Do you want—“ d’Artagnan begins, but Athos shakes his head. 

“No, I want. Cece, tell him the rest. Please.” He makes a face, a twist of his lips that’s neither a smile nor a wince, but somehow both. 

They are quiet as they watch Athos tug on his coat and scarf, as they watch him leave through the kitchen door without looking back. Once he’s gone, Cécile turns back to d’Artagnan with an unreadable look. 

“Another pot of coffee?” she suggests. 

They work quietly in tandem, not as seamlessly as she and Athos had, but well enough. Once the coffee is ready and their cups are refilled, they leave the kitchen for the sitting room. The fire has almost gone out; Cécile sits while d’Artagnan coaxes the flames back to life. 

“There isn’t much more to know,” she says after a long stretch of silence. “Olly and Tommy didn’t speak for months, between his incident with Anne and her getting rid of everyone. They hurt each other so badly. And Tommy became just… obsessed with figuring out how to get rid of Anne. I don’t know at what point, exactly, _she_ decided to get rid of _him_.” 

D’Artagnan lays some small logs on the andirons, watches to be sure they catch. “I’ve seen some of the files, the investigation files. After what happened this summer.” He stops, and she smiles at him. 

“Olly likes to believe that because he tells no one anything, it means we don’t know anything. I know what happened this summer. Ah,” she says, giving him a sharper look. “ _You_. You said she’d hurt you too, you’re him, aren’t you? The story I got was vague about some of the details.”

“I had no idea who she was,” he answers, trying not to bristle defensively. “Or who she was to Athos. She tried to, to use me to. To go after him. For her. And when I refused, she fucking shot me.” 

Cécile’s face softens. “She didn’t know who you were to him, either.” 

“We weren’t,” he says, frowning down at the fire. He adds another piece of wood. “Then, we weren’t. We only got together in September.” 

“He looks at you like you’re the sunrise on his first day out of prison,” she says. “Maybe you weren’t together then, but I know him. That look isn’t something that happened easy, or fast.” She laughs then. “Olly used to be both of those things. But that’s a story for another day.” 

He gets up and settles into the chair across from hers, dusting his trousers with his palms. He’s not sure that there aren’t ashes in his coffee now, but he drinks it anyway. He can’t taste any difference. 

“What I read,” he says, deciding not to take on her last statement, “said that. I’m sorry. Should I even be saying—?” 

“Just say it.” 

“They said the first clue that it was personal, and not a burglary gone wrong, even though it looked that way... Why would a burglar empty their gun into a homeowner who’d surprised them rifling the jewelry?” 

“The whole seventeen-round clip,” Cécile confirms, and wipes at the corner of her eye. “Olly was in Paris. They, Tommy and Olly, had made up a few weeks before, at Tommy’s insistence. But that week, Olly came into the city alone, to talk about putting a very large sum of money in an irrevocable trust for Anne.” She makes a face. “Everyone, I mean. It was a _lot_ of money, and when your family is all bankers and lawyers, even the ones who didn’t dislike Anne were suspicious. So everyone was trying to talk sense into Olly, and Tommy came up here. He left around lunchtime, told me he’d be back in the morning. I never saw him alive again.” 

“The case files,” d’Artagnan says slowly, “said they turned up documents showing that he’d been having her investigated. The PI had turned over to him evidence that would prove she wasn’t who she’d told Athos she was.” 

“Right. The best any of us could guess is, Tommy decided that enough was enough. Why he went to confront her instead of going to Olly first, I don’t know.” 

“He did,” Athos says, and Cécile and d’Artagnan both startle. 

He’s pink-cheeked from the cold but looks calmer, less sickened. He walks up between them, holds his hands out for a moment and then turns his back to the fire with a long sigh. 

“Are you all right?” d’Artagnan asks, and Athos nods, giving d’Artagnan a scant smile. 

“And are you going to explain?” Cécile prompts. “You never—“ 

Athos stops her with a raised hand. “It was that morning,” he says. “We came out of the meeting that morning, he took me aside, and he told me what he had discovered. And I accused him of being petty, of being jealous, of only doing it for revenge because she’d rejected him. I said he disgusted me, that he didn’t deserve you, and that as far as I was concerned, he could go to hell. That was the last conversation I had with my brother.” Athos’ voice, flat at the beginning of the speech, is shaking now. “So when the police asked if he’d come to me, with his suspicions? I said no. Because if I had just—“ 

“No,” Cécile says vehemently. “No, Olivier, that’s. That’s awful and fuck you for not telling me years ago, but that _still_ doesn’t make it your fault. That doesn’t mean that Tommy didn’t do several very stupid things, and that doesn’t mean that Anne didn’t murder him in cold fucking blood.” 

“If I had _listened—_ “ 

“Listen to me now!” she yells, pushing to her feet, fumbling her cup onto the mantel. Athos sidesteps, away from the fire and closer to d’Artagnan, but Cécile follows, getting into his face. “You idiot, do you not even see the irony? You keep saying I wish I’d listened, I wish I’d listened, instead of shutting up when someone’s _trying_ to tell you something. If I thought it would do any good, I’d slap you, I swear to God.” 

D’Artagnan reaches out and puts his hand on Athos’ back, now hot from the fire. “She has a point,” he says quietly. Athos closes his eyes a moment, shaking his head. 

“All right,” he says when he opens them. “All right, I just…” 

“You didn’t want to believe your brother was a bad guy,” d’Artagnan says, rubbing a small circle at the base of Athos’ spine. “And you already knew that she, that she wasn’t right. That she was hurting you. So it’s easier. It hurts less, to remember things as simple, good guy, bad guy.” 

“Yes,” Athos says. 

“Tommy would forgive what you said, you know he would,” Cécile says, putting her hand on Athos’ face. “You fought all the time, remember? Most of the time you ended up laughing at each other. So you said things to him you regretted. So did I, so do we all, all the time. You asked me yesterday, you asked me if it was all right for you to move on. _Listen to me_. It’s _always_ been all right.” 

This time it doesn’t hurt to watch them hug, d’Artagnan thinks. This time, watching Cécile press her dark cheek to Athos’ pink one, he feels nothing but a deep satisfaction, a relief like finally sitting at the end of a long march, when all your muscles seem to turn from stone to clay. Athos embraces his friend, and d’Artagnan thinks he understands, now. 

They wander back into the kitchen shortly after, rearrange themselves around the table again. It’s full dark outside, but they sit for almost two hours longer, talking quietly. Cécile and Athos trade stupid, silly childhood stories – d’Artagnan even gets in a few of his own – while the three of them pick at the leftover lamb and potatoes on the table. They are making their way through a third pot of coffee when Cécile’s phone rings with a text from her husband. 

“BAE DID U N THA O-MAN RUN OFF 2GTHR???” she reads out loud, showing them the screen. 

Athos pinches the bridge of his nose. “I hate him so, so much.” 

She angles the phone toward d’Artagnan, scrolling upward with a flick of her thumb. Every other text from David is in French, spelled and punctuated perfectly. He feels his mouth twitch. 

“He’s a surgeon,” she says airily, tapping a quick reply on the screen before putting the phone down. “He doesn’t need to know how to spell, just where to cut.” 

“A terrifying prospect in itself,” Athos says. “Do you need to be going?” 

“I do,” Cécile sighs, rapping the tabletop with both hands and standing. “David and I are headed for the States early tomorrow morning, and he’s got to be in Gaza by the first. Medical aid work,” she adds in explanation, with a nod at d’Artagnan. “He cycles through several postings a year, so he doesn’t get back to his family very often.” 

Athos has nothing pithy to say to that, getting up instead and circling the table to pull Cécile into a tight hug. She rubs his back and kisses his cheek. 

“Go visit my parents before you go back to Paris?” she suggests. “They would really love to see you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Athos says, stepping back from the embrace to lean on the table. “I’m not sure how much longer we’re staying.” 

“Mm,” she says, gathering up the phone, her bag, her jacket. “By the way. I told Marion you were here.” 

“Oh, fucking _Christ_ , Cécile.” Athos groans like he’s been punched in the stomach, and d’Artagnan stands up in alarm. 

“And with whom,” Cécile continues with a bright smile. “She’s in Italy with the kids for the holidays, but prepared to return if necessary.” 

“Who is Marion?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“She’s CEO of the company,” Athos says, rolling his eyes. 

“She is your _cousin_ ,” Cécile chides. 

“And she is terrifying. _Christ,”_ Athos repeats, scrubbing at his beard. “She eats babies for breakfast, and business rivals for lunch.” 

D’Artagnan can’t hold back a smile. “And what’s for dessert?” 

Cécile quirks an eyebrow. “Usually pretty boys like you.” 

His smile widens into a grin. “Sounds like fun.” 

“You’ll never find out,” Athos growls, giving Cécile a little push. “I can’t believe you.”  

“Please,” she says. “You know we’re friends. And whether you like it or not, people _do_ care about what’s going on with you.” 

“You’d always given the impression that you had no family,” d’Artagnan says to Athos. 

Cécile shakes her head. “Athos may not have any family,” she says firmly. “But Olly does.” 

 

The idea preoccupies d’Artagnan the rest of the evening. He’s not convinced that Athos and Olivier are such different people, but he doesn’t have the benefit of having known the man before – he can’t tell where they overlap, where they intersect. He does believe that Athos  _wanted_ them to be separate, that Athos has tried very hard to make them so. 

Aramis and Porthos are Athos’ closest friends, and yet even they don’t have any real idea of what lies in Athos' past. D'Artagnan suspects that Tréville knows a good deal more than he lets on, though he can’t quite be called a friend – he doesn’t think that they speak about anything but business, and that only rarely, for all that he clearly loves Athos. Lina is a trusted employee, but still just that. There’s no one else, that d’Artagnan can think of. One of the defining characteristics of Athos’ world is how small it is. 

He looks up Marion de la Fère on his phone, sitting at Athos’ feet while Athos drowses over a book in front of the fire. The data signal isn’t that great, but the pages load eventually, and d’Artagnan finds that she is indeed the president and CEO of a privately-held corporation called _Groupe Picard_. The family business, Athos had called it. Groupe Picard holds LF Capital Partners in London, and Compagnie Financière de la Fère and Banque privée de la Fère in Paris, as its largest assets. There’s more, insurance and real estate and philanthropy, and a lot that d’Artagnan doesn’t quite understand; what he does understand is the bottom line. The _family business_ has a net worth of nearly seven billion Euro. 

Seven billion. D’Artagnan can’t even conceive of the number, he thinks of mountains of coins like a dragon’s hoard; he thinks of a schoolboy’s trip to Versailles and rooms swathed in gold. It doesn’t seem real. Perhaps that is in itself enough of a reason to keep people away, for Athos to have transformed his life into one of such isolation. No longer bearing the name meant no longer announcing the wealth, no longer advertising for people like Anne to try to exploit him. But Athos had lived happily until she came, had friends and lovers and family—and despite what Athos said before, Cécile is clearly not the only one who still remembers those days.  

Maybe the deaths of his parents, and all the turmoil that followed, had unbalanced him – he’d had a path, and he’d been forced in another direction. D’Artagnan snuggles closer, pressing his cheek to Athos’ thigh. He does, he thinks, closing his eyes when Athos’ fingers tangle in his hair, have no small amount of sympathy for that experience. 

But that loss, that discord, was only vulnerability: a crack, not a break. D’Artagnan thinks back over all he’s learned these past days, and he’s sure of it, more sure than anything. It all comes back to Anne. Anne, who took that crack and pried it open wide; Anne, who split Athos in two. 

Maybe, d’Artagnan thinks, butting his head sleepily against Athos’ palm, it can be done. Maybe he can help Athos put himself back together. 

 

They make an early night of it when neither of them can stop dozing off; after the fifth or sixth time that Athos drops his book, d’Artagnan banks the fire, then herds Athos upstairs and into bed. 

They strip off their clothes and Athos holds d’Artagnan down for a while, kissing him until his lips are sore and his chin is scraped raw from Athos’ beard. They’re too tired to fuck, although they give it half a try; in they end they just rock together, sweaty and slow, until they come, one after the other. 

A few swipes with the corner of the sheet and they settle, d’Artagnan curled tight to Athos’ side. He lets his heart and breath slow, and match up with Athos’ rhythm. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” he whispers in the dark, his lips plumping against Athos’ bare shoulder. “Tomorrow, just for the day. Get out of the house.” 

Athos’ fingertips trail slowly up d’Artagnan’s spine, to the top and then down again. He splays his warm hand across the small of d’Artagnan’s back. “Where?”

“Amiens? We can go see the cathedral. I’ve never been.” 

Athos makes an amused noise. “I was unaware that you had an interest in gothic architecture.”

“I don’t have. But you do, and I want you to show me.” He smiles against Athos’ skin when he feels Athos nod. 

“All right. Anything else?” 

“Mmm, a long, fancy meal.” 

“Didn’t we have one of those today?”

“One that I don’t have to cook, or clean up after.” He hitches his shoulders. “I don’t want to go back to Paris yet. But I think we could both use a break, no?”

Athos turns his head, and kisses the first part of d’Artagnan that his mouth meets: his brow, as it happens, and d’Artagnan lifts his own head to answer him properly. 

When they settle again, Athos hmms and rubs his face into d’Artagnan’s hair, inhaling and then letting out a soft, contented sigh. D’Artagnan snuggles closer. 

“All right,” Athos says after a long silence, his voice fond and tired. “Whatever you like.”

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan mumbles, smothering a yawn with Athos’ shoulder. “G’night.”  

 

In the morning Athos comes down already dressed while d’Artagnan is still pottering about the kitchen in pajama bottoms; he asks if d'Artagnan will mind if he pops over to the Raymonds’ house before they leave for Amiens. "I want to get in a quick visit with Cece’s family. I do want you to meet them, but if I bring you along, we'll be there all day." 

“That’s fine,” d’Artagnan says, meeting him halfway across the room. He tucks his forefingers in Athos’ belt loops, and tugs him forward for a kiss. It’s several moments later that Athos pulls back, and clears his throat. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, husky-voiced, wiping his mouth with the side of his hand. “Get some fucking clothes on while I’m gone.” 

Athos returns and picks d’Artagnan up about an hour later. When he bundles into the front seat, Athos is smiling faintly, and d’Artagnan has to smile back. 

“How was your visit?” he asks, dropping his hand on top of Athos’ on the gearshift. 

“Nice,” Athos admits. “We had dinner in Paris a year or so ago, but I don’t see them often at all.” 

Étienne and Antoine Raymond, he explains, are brothers from Haiti who’d fled the Duvalier regime in the sixties; arriving first in Marseille, they rapidly worked their way up in the shipping industry, starting their own company just seven years later. Antoine, the older brother, still lives in Marseille, and two of his three sons have joined the business. The third is a maritime attorney. “So he may as well have,” Athos concludes. 

Cécile is Étienne’s only child; he married late, to a perfume heiress – “Do not let the pearls fool you,” Athos warns. “Françoise is… she looks like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but at least half the dirty words I know, I learned from her.” 

D’Artagnan laughs. “What else?” he prompts. 

“There’s not much else,” Athos says with a shrug. “They’re like family. They moved into the house up here when Cécile was little, because her mother wanted a simpler life than she’d grown up with. No Parisian society bullshit. Étienne was still in Marseille a lot, so she became friendly with my parents because Cece and I were the same age. The rest is—” He shrugs again. 

Another day d’Artagnan might’ve pressed the issue, but today he just leans over, and puts his head on Athos’ shoulder. It’s not exactly comfortable, and he can’t stay there for long, but it gets his point across. 

“Maybe,” Athos suggests a few kilometers later, “when we’re all back in Paris. We could have dinner with Étienne and Françoise.” 

It’s worth the crick his neck, d’Artagnan decides. “That sounds great,” he says. It really does. 

 

 _Notre-Dame d'Amiens_ is huge (the 19th largest church in the world, the sonorous tour guide informs them, and the tallest completed church in France), but the tour itself takes less time than the drive up from La Fère had. Athos seems to be enjoying himself, though, correcting the guide in an undertone to d’Artagnan, pointing out items of interest that aren’t in the pamphlet. He whispers a story about the St. John the Baptist reliquary that has d’Artagnan desperately trying to smother his laughter in his sleeves. 

The guide shoots them a dirty look. Athos takes d’Artagnan’s hand in his and returns the man’s gaze, chin up and challenging. The guide does not take the dare. 

Athos doesn’t let go of his hand after the tour, leading d’Artagnan around the labyrinth, then out to examine the façade. He’s in the middle of explaining something about the buttresses when he stops, and gives d’Artagnan’s fingers a squeeze. 

“You’re bored senseless, aren’t you?” Athos asks, the corners of his mouth curling up. 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan answers, smiling widely. “I haven’t heard a word since…” He scratches his head. “Something about the porticos.” 

“Portals,” Athos corrects automatically, and his cheeks go a little pink. “Why didn’t you say something?” 

How to explain, the simple delight of walking around a public place – a church, no less! – with Athos’ strong fingers twined in his? The joy that came of occasional sweep of Athos’ thumb across the back of his hand, or the flex of Athos’ knuckles under d’Artagnan’s fingertips? It was something he’d thrown at Athos in frustration the other day, that fact that for all that Athos would say he’s not ashamed of their relationship, in public he usually keeps a certain physical distance. D’Artagnan wonders if this hand-holding now is a direct response to his charge, or if, after everything that’s been said in the past two days, Athos has simply let go enough to act without thought, to take d’Artagnan’s hand simply because he wants to. 

He hopes it’s the latter. 

“ _You_ are having a nice time,” he says, lifting their joined hands and sweeping a kiss over Athos’ fingers. “That’s enough for me.” 

Athos looks at him speculatively. “So do you want to wait to eat, and go back in to check out the tower?”

“I really, really don’t,” he says desperately, and he’s still laughing when Athos pulls him into a kiss.  

Their late lunch is exquisite – per d’Artagnan’s request it is a long, fancy meal, at a Michelin-starred restaurant in Dury, just outside Amiens. They’re underdressed, and when they arrive, the place is packed with posh-looking diners. The host flicks a glance over them, pen poised mid-air over his list; he looks as though he’s about to tell them to get lost, but Athos just tips his head in greeting. 

“A table for two,” he says, sounding bored. “De la Fère.” 

The pen snaps down onto the stand. “We are so very pleased to have you join us, monsieur,” the host says, his sour look transforming into a beaming smile. “It will be but a moment.” 

It is, in fact, less than a minute before they’re shown to a lovely table, and seconds after that the staff appears. Neither pushy nor obsequious, they seem to anticipate every need before it’s been voiced. D’Artagnan lets Athos order for him, and Athos, in turn, tells the sommelier that they’ll have whatever she recommends. 

“You never do this in Paris,” d’Artagnan says in a low voice, leaning across the round table. Athos raises an eyebrow. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks, fingertips lighting on the rim of his wineglass. 

“No.” d’Artagnan reaches out and catches Athos’ hand. “It’s just interesting to see.” He grins. “Besides, I don’t think Bernadette would be impressed.” 

Athos buries his laugh in a cough. “No, I think she’d throw us out.” 

The midwinter sun has almost fully set when they walk back to the car, the air crisp and clear. Athos had only tasted the wine with each course, otherwise sticking to water, and d’Artagnan had followed his example; still, he dozes off on the drive back, head lolling against the cold window. He wakes at the sound of gravel under the tires, stretching and yawning, looking ahead to the château rising out of the dark. 

It catches him with its beauty the same way it did the night they arrived, except this time his heart feels so full, this time Athos is glancing over at him not with cautious reserve but with his eyes so soft and bright. 

“Hey,” d’Artagnan says, unclipping his seat belt and leaning over, laying one hand along Athos’ cheek. He kisses Athos slowly, carefully, pulling away as Athos starts to respond. “I love you,” he whispers, still feeling the thrill of novelty in saying it aloud, in saying it to _Athos_. 

Athos sighs, pushing his hands into d’Artagnan’s hair and pulling him back in for a bruising kiss. “And you,” Athos whispers back, letting go and giving d’Artagnan a little push. “C’mon.” 

It’s too early for bed but d’Artagnan doesn’t question it when Athos discards his coat and shoes inside the entryway, heading for the stairs; he does the same, and follows. The house is cool and comfortable, no sign that anyone has been here in their absence except the floors seem shinier, and the carpets brighter. Athos pauses at the top of the stairs, his shirt already half unbuttoned; he catches d’Artagnan around the waist and reels him in for another kiss. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” d’Artagnan says when they break, brushing his knuckles over Athos’ face. 

“We’ve had a very nice day of not talking about it,” Athos replies, giving one of d’Artagnan’s fingertips a gentle bite. “And we talked entirely too much about it yesterday.” 

“I thought maybe you would want to talk about… all of. What we talked about.” It sounds even stupider out loud than it had in his head, and d’Artagnan grimaces. Athos sighs and steps away. 

“I _wanted_ to take you to bed and not let you come until sometime tomorrow morning, but if you want to talk…” Athos throws his hands up. “I suppose we’ll talk.” 

It’s difficult to push down the wave of heat that rolls through d’Artagnan’s body at those words, but he does his best, balling one fist to help him focus. “Let me ask you a question,” he starts, and Athos looks wary.  

“All right.” 

“How long has this house been in your family?”

Athos’ face goes from suspicious to startled so quickly that it’s almost comical. “It was built in the… 16th century? By the fourth or fifth Comte de la Fère. Call it five hundred years. Why?”

“And you, personally, have owned it for ten or so, right?” 

Athos nods. 

It had been very faint, a distant, discordant hum that had grown louder the more he thought on it; it had finally come clear that morning when he realized that he was getting dressed in a room that had no art on the walls, nothing but the brighter patches on the paint where the frames once hung. 

“I know this place has a lot of bad memories for you,” d’Artagnan says in a soft voice. “And I know that Denis and Claudia, and probably other people, I don’t know, but I do see that they’re trying to keep it alive for you. Five hundred years, Athos. This is your _home_ , and nothing in it is _yours_ anymore, if it ever was… None of your stuff, none of your art, your books… You don’t have a lot in Paris either, but it’s still obviously _yours_. I want. I hoped.” He stops, biting his lip. “You’d let me help you make this house yours again.” 

For a moment Athos just stares at him, standing motionless in the middle of the hallway long enough that d’Artagnan thinks he has fucked up, he has fucked up _badly_ , but then Athos makes a sound, a tiny, pained laugh that sets d’Artagnan’s stomach spinning. 

“God,” Athos says, rubbing at his eyes. “You would notice that, wouldn’t you? You can walk into a room and not see a fucking _tree_ standing in the middle of it, but let there be some dust out of place on the floor, and you’re on it like a police dog.”  

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan mutters, and Athos shakes his head. 

“No, no, I love that about you, d’Artagnan, I. Just fucking love you.” Athos swallows, and glances back over his shoulder, back toward the master bedroom doors. 

“I love you too,” d’Artagnan answers, feeling that thrill again, that heat. He takes a step toward Athos, curves his palms over Athos’ hips. 

“Anne was the kind of person who appreciates art for nothing but its… resale value and its social cachet,” Athos says, taking d’Artagnan’s hands and lifting them to kiss each palm before drawing d’Artagnan into his arms, turning them both till they’re facing the doors. “She actually hated contemporary art, the kinds of things I liked… the kinds of things my mother painted. My print, the Motherwell… it was a gift from _Maman._ When I moved into that room, I hung it over the bed, and when Anne moved in, she hated it so much that I took it back to the Paris flat so she’d stop complaining. I put the rest in storage, and she spent a bunch of my money on trendy bullshit from London, stuff she didn’t even like but it was _in._ I barely broke even selling it all… after. And since I planned to never come here again, I never brought the collection back out.” 

D’Artagnan nods, thumping the back of his head against Athos’ shoulder. “What else?” 

He feels Athos’ shrug, but when Athos speaks, it’s hesitant. “Some. Of the décor.” He huffs softly. “In there.” 

They creep toward the room like thieves; the doorknob rattles and scrapes the same way it had the day before, but now it sounds deafening in the dark and empty house. Finally it gives. Athos fumbles on the wall for the light switch, but when he turns it on, all but one of the bulbs have burnt out in the overhead fixture. It casts a weak, orangey light, leaving most of the room still shadowed. D’Artagnan shivers when he sees his own reflection, distorted in a dusty mirror. 

Athos moves silently through the room and d’Artagnan follows, really looking at things this time, things he hadn’t taken in the day before when he was more concerned about Athos than the furnishings. He takes note of the pale rectangle on the wall above the bed, matching the size and shape of that print he now knows so well; there are other blank spots he sees now, just like in their room down the hall. He watches as Athos opens the closet and sees that half the clothes are missing, the other half hanging dusty and moth-eaten. In the bathroom a valet kit lies open, the razor rusted, the shaving soap in its cup desiccated to a small cracked lump that still smells faintly of vetiver and bay rum. 

When d’Artagnan was ten, his father had taken him to Italy; they’d gone to Pompeii on a day trip out of Naples. He’d sobbed himself sick halfway through the tour – his mother was only two years gone, and the sight of the body casts, each person and animal frozen in death, was an overwhelming horror that gave him nightmares for weeks. The state of these rooms remind him of nothing so much as those ruins, the dust laying like ash over every surface, what had once been a vibrant life halted midstream by disaster. 

“The bed,” Athos says at last, stopping at its foot. “The bed in the room we’re in now, that was my parents’. This one Anne picked out because the frame was sturdy enough.” 

Even with those words as a clue, d’Artagnan still isn’t prepared for what’s next, for Athos making a steady, careful circuit around the bed and pulling up the chains at each corner. There’s a shackle secured to each of the four bedposts, heavy steel things with only the most minimal lining. Last there is a long chain ending in a bolt snap, attached to the frame at the head. 

Athos rubs his hands over his face, the corners of his eyes bright and wet, and he lets out a breath that sounds as if it’s been held for years. 

Maybe it has. 

“We’ll get rid of this first,” Athos says in an unsteady voice. “It’s a shame it’s mostly metal, I’d like to shove it all out the window and burn it on the lawn.” 

“Could try anyway,” d’Artagnan suggests, making sure that Athos can see him moving into his space before he touches; when he does, Athos pulls him into his arms and holds him tightly, standing behind d’Artagnan with his chin resting on d’Artagnan’s shoulder.  

Athos is quiet a moment, then d’Artagnan feels a slight nod. “Remember what I told you right at the start?” he asks. “You’re the one in control. You can call red any time. I only do what you agree to. I only have the power you let me have.” 

“Yes.” 

“That’s not what it was like, with her. It wasn’t… a partnership. It wasn’t equal. I didn’t understand, it. I was too… I forgot. What Samir taught me. I forgot that it was supposed to be beautiful.” 

D’Artagnan swallows hard, wanting to turn around and see Athos’ face, wanting to kiss him and make it better like a child. He settles for catching the hand that rests on his belly, and bringing it up to his mouth. He presses a kiss to Athos’ wrist. 

“One of her favorite games. Put me there near the foot of the bed.” Athos gestures with his other hand, presumably indicating the spot. D’Artagnan doesn’t look. “It’s just over two meters, from head to foot, maybe 210 centimeters? 220? The chain is just long enough to hold taut as long as I didn’t change position, clipped to a choke collar, like for a dog.”

If he let the chain go slack by leaning back, Athos explains, he would be punished. If he moved too far forward, the collar would tighten, cutting off his air. 

“Some people enjoy things like that. Some people want it, they plan it and they do it together, they do it with love. It’s not the doing it that’s wrong. I used to love to be slapped, I would beg Samir for it. There are all kinds of things that we, that she did, that aren’t inherently wrong. It was _how_ , it was how… some people can convince you of a thing you never wanted, and leave you thinking it was your idea.” 

Athos had mentioned this same thing the day before, and hearing it had made d’Artagnan’s heart ache. Now tears stream freely down his cheeks as he listens to Athos go on in that halting voice. He kisses Athos’ hand again, and Athos squeezes his fingers in reply. 

“Always escalating,” Athos is saying. “How do you get from liking a bit of face slapping to being lashed with a martinet? A little at a time, telling me what I liked and never giving me the option to say no. Telling me how to make her happy, because fuck, I _wanted_ to make her happy. And hurting me made her happy. Using me made her happy.” 

Held in position by the chain, hands shackled behind his back, Athos would have to make her come until she was satisfied. If he failed – and he was never told in advance what success would entail – then he’d be punished. And while he was being punished, Anne would remind him that she was the only person who understood what he needed. She was the only person who could do this for him. His friends, his brother, his family, they’d be disgusted. He could never tell them. They could never see who he really was.

D’Artagnan feels Athos’ forehead against the crown of his head, feels Athos’ breath moving his hair. 

“It’s amazing, what you’ll do,” he concludes after a long silence, “what you’ll allow, when you feel that alone.”

He turns in Athos’ arms then, unable to bear it any longer; he pulls Athos close, slightly surprised when Athos puts his head down on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. He cups the back of Athos’ head. “You’re not alone,” he says fiercely, blinking back his own tears. “If you ever were, you’re not now.” 

 

They make their way out of the room a few minutes later, when Athos has stopped shaking and d’Artagnan’s eyes are mostly dry. They speak in low voices, agreeing that they’ll take the chains from the bed in the morning, and then Athos will ask Denis to disassemble and remove it from the house. Step two will be getting the place cleaned, Athos says. They agree that there’s no need to be present for any of it. 

“I can’t fix everything all at once,” Athos says, leading d’Artagnan into the bathroom off their room. He gives d’Artagnan a gentle push toward the shower. “Just. One thing at a time.” 

“One thing at a time,” d’Artagnan agrees, needing no further encouragement to strip out of his clothes. They are both covered in dust and cobwebs; he feels filthy. He reaches out and turns on the water. “Join me?” 

Athos doesn’t answer, just finishes shucking off his own clothes and steps into the glass enclosure. D’Artagnan grins, and ducks in after. 

“I want you so much,” Athos whispers urgently against d’Artagnan’s lips when they finally tumble back out again, hair dripping, and their skins flushed with steam. “I want to do—but if you don’t, after what I told you, it’s all right—“

“Yes,” d’Artagnan moans back. “Yes, I do, green.” 

Athos kisses him hard and then steps back, visibly taking control of himself with a nod and a firm set to his jaw. “All right. All right, dry off and I’ll meet you at the bed in five minutes. Time starts now.”  He grabs a towel for himself as he leaves. 

Four minutes later, d’Artagnan approaches the bed, his heart slamming hard against his ribs. It’s a huge wooden sleigh bed, and there’s no place for him to kneel at the foot, so he just positions himself in the middle, putting his hands on the footboard and facing the head. After a moment he sets his knees a bit wider, redistributes his weight; even in the unfamiliar room, without his usual objects of focus, the position is such a part of his psyche now that he feels himself sinking easily. 

He bows his head when he feels Athos’ touch on the back of his neck. 

“Do you want this?”

“Green.”

“Are you sure?”

“Green.” 

Athos’ lips replace his hand at the top of d’Artagnan’s spine. “I love you,” he says, so quietly that d’Artagnan only just hears it. 

The words spread warmth through d’Artagnan’s body, like settling into a hot bath on a cold day; it starts in his skin, in his limbs, finally soaking into his core, and sealing itself there. 

“Green,” he whispers back. 

Everything is in Athos’ hands now. Everything will be all right. 

Something cool is spread on his shoulders, and he inhales the scent of sandalwood. He hums a pleased noise, lets his head drop forward. 

“I hadn’t realized you packed this,” Athos murmurs, rubbing the massage oil over d’Artagnan’s skin in long, sweeping strokes. 

“Mm-hm,” he answers, arching his back a little when Athos’ fingers dig in to the tight muscles over his shoulder blades. “May I lean on the bed?” 

There’s a long pause before Athos answers, even though he keeps working, drawing soft noises out of d’Artagnan as he does. 

“No,” Athos says at last, “why don’t you lie down, instead. Pull the covers back and get on your belly.” 

A part of d’Artagnan’s mind, watching from safe distance, is delighted; his body moves at the instruction, doing as he’s told and stretching out on the crisp sheets.  

Motion, weight. Athos settles astride d’Artagnan’s hips, fabric against d’Artagnan’s ass but he can feel Athos’ hairy thighs against his own. In his underwear, then. D’Artagnan shifts his ass back against Athos’ front. Not hard yet. He shifts again, rolling his hips. 

“Be still,” Athos says, giving d’Artagnan a gentle tap on the ribs. 

“Mmm,” he replies, because Athos didn’t say be quiet, and because Athos is really working his back and shoulders now. It feels so good; he loves it when Athos does this. He loves the strength in Athos’ hands, turned to the purpose of his pleasure. 

He loses time as Athos touches him, drifting between sensations. He feels like he’s floating in a warm blue sea, caressed by the waves, moved only by their will. He’s vaguely aware of Athos making his way downward, more rubbing the oil into d’Artagnan’s skin than really massaging. Firm strokes over his ass, down the sides of his hips, down his legs. He feels Athos’ hands on his knees, on his calves, on the arches of his feet. 

He moves without resistance when Athos turns him over onto his back, looking up at Athos with unfocused eyes, smiling when Athos leans in close for a slow, sweet kiss. More oil when Athos pulls back, and now the hands return, moving up his body from his abs to his chest. Fingers on his nipples, making him arch and moan. His cock is a full, heavy presence, but the weight of the air on his skin, the heat of Athos’ touch, subsumes the ache of wanting. 

Athos goes all the way to d’Artagnan’s toes again without ever touching his cock, and d’Artagnan only sighs when a kiss on his anklebone signals the end. He knows something better is next. Something better is always next. 

“Turn again,” Athos says softly, and d’Artagnan opens his eyes to catch Athos sitting back on his heels, watching with a heated gaze. He rolls back onto his belly, and then Athos takes hold of his hips, adjusting his position. “Up on your knees, knees apart. Mm, a bit further. Good, now fold forward. Brace on the, the headboard there.” 

D’Artagnan stretches forward, putting his hands flat against the cool wood of the headboard. 

“Beautiful,” Athos murmurs. 

He’s not sure how much later it is, a few seconds? A few minutes? D’Artagnan feels the push of Athos’ fingers inside him, two fingers, slick with oil. He grunts into the pillow, pushes back into it and gets a light, sharp slap on his hip. 

“Be still,” Athos repeats. “I won’t say it again.”

It’s slow, slower even than how Athos had touched his body, his skin. Just the lightest pressure at first, and even that makes d’Artagnan’s breath stutter in his throat. He feels drops of sweat run down his spine. Athos curves and curls his fingers, and pleasure sings along d’Artagnan’s nerves; then, as it dissipates, when his body calms, Athos does it again. One, two slow firm strokes over that spot deep inside, and d’Artagnan’s cock jerks and drips. 

Hours. It must be hours. He’s brought up to the edge and pulled back over and over; there’s nothing left, eventually, but that single point of contact at the tips of Athos’ fingers. Nothing left but the crest and fall of pleasure, and Athos is everything, the wave and the rocks and the shore. 

“Now,” he says softly when it’s time, when it’s finally time. He rubs harder, and again harder, and d’Artagnan comes with a cry, sobbing into the pillow as his body spasms in release. 

Athos lets him lie for a few moments, then unfolds him from the position he’s held so long, he has no idea how long. Everything is dreamy and hazy; he curls automatically into Athos’ arms and is held gently, Athos stroking over his sweat-damp hair. 

“You are amazing,” Athos says in a low voice, his lips brushing d’Artagnan’s temple. “You are so beautiful, and so strong. I am in constant awe of you. You never hide from me, you never hide from _yourself_ , do you know how rare that is? I love you so goddamn much it makes me ill sometimes, you are so _good_ , thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” 

He’s barely aware of the words, only the tone really reaches him, and even from that he can’t quite untangle all the strands of pride, love, and pain. He presses closer, nuzzling into Athos’ neck. 

“Bath or sleep?” Athos offers after a bit, and d’Artagnan stretches, curling his toes. He’s in that wonderful warm middle spot, where he’s more with it than not, but could go under again easily. It’s like treading water, he thinks. Closer to sinking than it is to swimming. 

“Kiss me?” he asks instead, lifting his head. 

Athos obliges with a soft _mm_ , licking into d’Artagnan’s mouth with restrained hunger. He can feel that Athos wants him, that Athos is hard and the front of his boxer briefs is damp with it. He shifts, and rocks his hips against Athos’. Athos makes another noise, pulling back with a shake of his head. 

“Enough for tonight,” he says, dropping a kiss on d’Artagnan’s forehead. 

“I can take more,” d’Artagnan breathes. 

“I know you can.” Athos rolls them, pins d’Artagnan down with his hands on d’Artagnan’s wrists. “But you don’t need to. I don’t need you to.” 

D’Artagnan struggles only a moment and then goes still, staring up into Athos’ eyes. He can’t read the expression there. “It’s not fair to you.” 

Athos takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a long sigh, releasing d’Artagnan’s arms before moving back and away. “Stay put,” he orders. “I’ll be right back.” 

It isn’t long, but d’Artagnan closes his eyes and drifts anyway, leaving his arms over his head.  He still feels fuzzily wonderful, his thighs still quivering a bit. His blood is still singing. 

He hears footsteps, and the heavy click of the old-fashioned light switch; he opens his eyes on a darkened room. He can just make out Athos crossing the floor, carrying a large towel and the electric candle from the window. 

Athos puts the candle down on the bedside table, and takes the towel off his shoulder, shaking it out. “Shift over,” he directs, and spreads the towel over the wet spots on the sheets when d’Artagnan does. He settles himself beside d’Artagnan, pulling the duvet up over them both. “Now back here.”

It’s easy and familiar to wriggle into Athos’ embrace, letting Athos surround him. Athos kisses his ear, his shoulder, his hair, his neck; Athos spreads his hand low on d’Artagnan’s side, brushing his thumb back and forth over the scar there. It doesn’t seem to matter, now, that Athos isn’t going to fuck him. “You make me feel so safe,” he mumbles, and feels Athos bowing his head. 

“You’re right,” Athos says after a while, and d’Artagnan thinks that if Athos’ mouth weren’t so close, he wouldn’t hear the words at all. “It’s a good idea. Cleaning up that room. Taking the house back. Making it ours.” 

The electric candle doesn’t cast much light, and the room seems cavernous in the dark. D’Artagnan presses his cheek to Athos’ shoulder, settling more firmly in Athos’ arms. “I’m glad,” he says. 

“That’s why,” Athos goes on, so, so softly. “I said I don’t need you to. I don’t need to push you up to your limits for me to get off. It’s about me, as much as you. It’s. It’s not that I don’t want you, it’s _never_ that I don’t want you. But the last time I was in bed with somebody in this house, I didn’t get to decide.” 

It’s like icy water falling on the back of his neck. D’Artagnan shivers. 

“I forgot that I had any power,” Athos says, flexing his arms around d’Artagnan’s body. “I forgot that it was supposed to be about my choice. I know, now. But sometimes I still need to say no. Sometimes I need to remind myself that I can.” 

“Do I ever—“ d’Artagnan begins, but Athos tightens his arms again, cutting him off with a sharp, “No.” 

“No,” Athos repeats a moment later, relaxing slightly. He shakes his head, beard scraping over d’Artagnan’s hair. “You don’t ask for too much. If I don’t want to fuck, it’s not because I don’t want _you_ , d’Artagnan, I. I _always_ want _you._ ” 

It shakes him, the raw honesty in Athos’ voice; it goes to his gut in a wholly different way than Athos’ revelations did. D’Artagnan runs his fingers through Athos’ hair. “Same,” he whispers. “You too.” 

 

They sleep like the dead and wake together just as the watery sun is starting to filter into the room. D’Artagnan stretches and hears his back crack; he groans with bliss and does it again. When he looks, Athos is propped on one elbow, looking down at him with a gentle smile. 

“Let’s go back to Paris today,” he says, reaching over with his other hand. He trails his fingertip down d’Artagnan’s nose, onto his lips, and d’Artagnan kisses it before he answers. 

“I thought you wanted to deal with the room first?” 

Athos makes a face. “I did. Let me think about that, about. How to do that.” He shifts to sit on the side of the bed, and d’Artagnan rolls to his knees, leans in and presses kisses along the line of Athos’ shoulders, nuzzling into his hair. 

“Are you all right?” he asks in a murmur, bumping his lips against the crown of Athos’ head. 

“Getting there,” Athos responds. There’s something in the tone of his voice, something tired and hopeful, that makes d’Artagnan feel assured that it’s true. 

They share the shower again, businesslike this time; it feels like now that the decision to leave has been made, there’s no point in lingering. Athos gets dressed and starts making phone calls, striding out of the room as he speaks. D’Artagnan dresses and packs their things, tidies up the room and bath as much as possible; once he makes his way downstairs, he finds Athos has made coffee and toast. He helps himself to both, thanking Athos with a kiss. 

“I need to turn the heat down, and check on the oil,” Athos says. “Denis is coming later, but the less for him to do, the sooner he can get back home.” 

D’Artagnan nods his agreement. “I’ll finish cleaning up in here and the sitting room… Oh, the tree. Should we take down the tree?” 

“That’s better left to professionals,” Athos says with a wry smile. “I have no problem admitting that I don’t have the first idea what to do with it.” 

“You’re hopeless,” d’Artagnan teases, and Athos pokes him in the belly, making him laugh. 

“In this,” Athos says, “I am happy to be hopeless.” 

It doesn’t take long to clean up the kitchen, to get rid of the things in the refrigerator that might spoil. He finds a shopping bag and puts the leftover lamb and some of the still-fresh fruit in it, and takes it and their bags out to the car. Next is to heave his massive Christmas gift into the car, which takes no small amount of effort; once it’s safely in the trunk, he dusts himself off and goes back in just in time to meet Athos in the front hall. 

Athos, who’s descending the stairs holding a toolbox in one hand, and a suspiciously clanking garbage bag in the other. His brow is furrowed in concentration; he starts when he sees d’Artagnan coming through the door. 

“I—“ he says, looking down at the bag.

“It’s all right,” d’Artagnan says, too many emotions crowding his chest, up into his throat. “You didn’t have to do that by yourself, but. It’s all right.” 

“Mm,” Athos responds with a slight nod. “Well. I’m just going to bin this, and then I think we’re ready to go.” 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. “I think we are,”

 

Athos doesn’t ask what d’Artagnan wants to do when they get back to Paris, doesn’t say anything about d’Artagnan going home to his own flat, or suggest that d’Artagnan ought to take some time alone. He drives straight to his building, parks and helps d’Artagnan carry their things up to the flat; he takes d’Artagnan’s books up himself, and installs them in the kitchen with a satisfied expression. 

So d’Artagnan doesn’t mention it, instead he puts his arms around Athos and suggests walking over to their favorite café for brunch, and feels a warm glow inside when Athos pronounces that an excellent idea, punctuated with a kiss. 

Bernadette’s service is surly, Jean’s eggs are delicious; they eat and talk and hold hands until Bernadette informs them that if they’re going to stay any longer, they should have the courtesy to order lunch. Athos answers sweetly that she certainly would be the expert on courtesy, and she laughs raucously before throwing them out. 

It’s a warm, comfortable afternoon, stretched out on the sofa with d’Artagnan’s head on Athos’ lap. He drowses while Athos reads, then they shuffle to bed, curl around each other and whisper about trivialities until the weak winter light fades from the window, and they fall asleep. 

 

Over breakfast, Athos suggests an outing to the Centre Pompidou; he says he hasn’t been in a while, and would like to show d’Artagnan around. “We can spend an equal block of time in the kitchen store of your choosing,” he adds with a quirk of his eyebrow. “To keep it fair.” 

“I don’t hate museums the way you hate kitchen stores,” d’Artagnan points out with a grin. “I just don’t understand needing to look at a painting for more than five minutes, in most cases.” 

“And I don’t understand what makes two identical-looking saucepans different,” Athos volleys back. “Or why you would need to spend twenty-minutes comparing them.”

“Because one was stainless and one was copper-core,” d’Artagnan says automatically, and then feels his face heating up as if it were copper-lined. “Right, point taken. When do you want to go?” 

It’s a trip of only about fifteen minutes, but the weather is damp and bitter. D’Artagnan presses to Athos’ side as they walk, feeling like the wind is cutting straight through his coat and scarf; it’s colder than it was in La Fère, and his ears are freezing after just a few blocks. He tries pulling his scarf up higher, but it doesn’t work well. 

“Here,” Athos says quietly, pulling a soft knit cap from his coat pocket. 

“I love you,” d’Artagnan says as he tugs it into place on his head. “A lot. Oh god, that’s nice.” 

“You’d think that someone with ears like yours would know to carry a cap,” Athos says, linking their gloved fingers together. D’Artagnan bumps his shoulder by way of reply, and Athos jostles him back. 

The museum doesn’t do much for him, but he dutifully follows Athos through a huge thirty-year retrospective of contemporary art and architecture, and through a special sculpture exhibition that includes metal balloon animals, vacuum cleaners under glass, and a porcelain figure of Michael Jackson with his pet monkey. Most of what Athos is pointing out to him, he has to admit, is going straight over his head, but he smiles and nods at the ugly sculptures and vomitous paintings and the things that don’t look like anything at all, and only teases Athos a little. 

The modern art gallery on the 5th floor is closed, a large temporary wall blocking access from the rest of the floor. Athos frowns at the sign for a moment before telling d’Artagnan to wait, and approaching the guard in the corner. They have a brief conversation, the guard looking skeptical, and then Athos digs a card out of his wallet and hands it over. The guard frowns at it, but makes a call on his headset. A moment later, he hands the card back, and opens a door that d’Artagnan hadn’t noticed. Athos beckons for d’Artagnan, and goes inside. 

“What did you do?” d’Artagnan asks when he catches up, and the door has clicked shut behind them. The gallery is empty of people, many of the works covered, the lights low. Their footsteps echo across the floor. 

“Pulled rank,” Athos says, holding out the card between two fingers. D’Artagnan takes it. 

It’s not Athos’ usual business card; it’s thick creamy stock printed with only two heavily engraved lines. _Olivier d’Athos de la Fère,_ the card reads. _XIVe_ _Comte de la Fère._

“Really?” d’Artagnan says, rolling his eyes. “What’s so important—“ 

“Olivier!” 

The woman coming out of another cleverly disguised door is tall and thin, with a striking nose and wild silver curls. Despite her obvious age, her eyebrows are still pure black, like someone took a paintbrush and put on a fresh coat, but then forgot to touch up the rest. She strides toward Athos, arms out, and he walks straight into her embrace. 

“Thalia,” he says happily as they exchange kisses in greeting. “Thalia, this is my. My partner, Charles d’Artagnan.” He holds out his hand and d’Artagnan moves in to take it. 

“Hello,” he says, and Athos squeezes his fingers. 

“D’Artagnan, this is Dr. Thalia Georgiadis, one of the museum’s curators, and a.” Athos breathes in slowly. “A dear family friend.” 

Thalia pulls d’Artagnan in to kiss his cheeks as well, and he finds himself beaming at her. Another friend, another person that Athos may have once counted lost, but who obviously has been here all along. He can’t find words for how it feels, seeing Athos shy and happy like this, when the man he’d known even four months ago wouldn’t have dared show this emotion. This vulnerability. He squeezes Athos’ hand back. 

“You haven’t come to see me in eons,” Thalia is chiding Athos, confirming d’Artagnan’s guess. “I get so lonely!” 

“Mm-hm,” he says. “How is Ryma?” 

“She’s wonderful, of course. Our fortieth anniversary is coming up in the autumn, there is going to be a party, and you are going to be there. No arguments,” 

“None at all,” Athos says, eyes bright. “Of course we’ll be there.” 

We’ll be there. In the autumn. D’Artagnan smiles his agreement even as his heart feels like it’s shifted up into fifth gear. First the word partner, now this. Athos hasn’t ever spoken about them in the future tense before, at least, not the distant future. Tomorrow, next week, that sort of thing. Never like this, never with the supposition that this thing, this relationship, is meant to last. He swallows, and tries to tune back into the conversation. 

Athos and Thalia are walking away, and he follows through the dim gallery, trying to keep track of the path. It’s a sort of maze, each turn bringing you into a set of walls that is not quite a room, dividers and pillars cropping up where he least expects. 

“—to be alone with them?” Thalia is saying.  

“If it’s all right,” Athos says. 

“Of course. You’re still their owner, and also because I say it’s all right.” Thalia tosses her hair, and her curls bounce and shiver. “Stick your nose in and say goodbye before you go, yes?” 

“Yes,” Athos says. Thalia rubs his arm, and then sweeps away. 

Athos comes to a halt in front of a group of three paintings, hanging uncovered on a wall in one of the turns. Athos takes d'Artagnan's hand again, and points to the card on the wall. 

 _Olivia d'Athos. French, 1948-2005._  

His eyes glaze over the biographical notes, the bland text reducing a life and life's work to a few sentences about where she studied, what schools influenced her art. A final line at the bottom of the card states that the paintings are on permanent loan from the Estate of Olivia d'Athos de la Fère.

At first he can feel Athos watching him as d'Artagnan turns his gaze to the paintings themselves. They are large, each about the size of a Métro poster, the canvases unframed and hanging on thin wires from high on the wall. The one in the middle captivates him immediately: the longer he looks, the more the shapes in the slashes of color come clear, the curves of a woman's body, the shapes of breasts and belly. She's pregnant, he realizes with a start. The shades of red and blue make the woman look powerful, her arms protective around the swirling blue-green at her center. 

_Autoportrait Nu, 1977._

When Athos had said that his mother was a painter, for some reason the visual that had come to mind was soft landscapes, flowers and trees in gentle colors. He'd expected something stereotypically feminine, he supposes. Impressionistic, like Monet’s gardens. Pastel colors, perhaps. He hadn't expected this boldness, this potent mix of aggression and pride. The piece to the left is called  _Mode No. 6._ It’s all black and red, a woman's body pulled apart into pieces, lips and breasts and vulva exaggerated, her head and limbs dropped haphazardly around her torso, like a broken doll. It's dated 1973, and d'Artagnan does the math in his head. Twenty-five. The same age he is now. 

"My mother," Athos says quietly, "was a fashion model, before she married my father." He reaches out, fingers almost touching the thick red paint of the woman's mouth before he pulls back, balling his hand into a fist. "She didn't talk much about it, but she painted a lot of these. And she _hated_ to be photographed. My father used to say that all the photos he took on their honeymoon were of the palm of her hand and the top of her head in various settings along the Riviera." 

Athos turns to d'Artagnan, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I never thought of her as an angry woman," he goes on. "I don't think I remember her ever raising her voice, even when Tommy and I were being monsters, which we usually were. It seems she saved it for the work. This... this was her raised voice." 

“It’s beautiful,” d’Artagnan says, and he’s not being sarcastic this time, and not telling Athos what he wants to hear. It _is_ beautiful, if for no other reason than the pain and anger is so present, so relatable, so honest. “And scary,” he adds. 

To his surprise, Athos laughs softly. “A lot of people were afraid of my mother,” he says, and this time he does touch the painting, trailing his fingertips along the edge of the canvas. “Not us, us kids. But she had this… way of looking at people that terrified them.” 

“So it’s genetic,” d’Artagnan teases, and Athos rolls his eyes. 

“Last and least,” he says, waving at the third painting. “Me.” 

_Sans Titre No. 12 (Olivier)_ , reads the card. _1979._

The woman from the middle painting is no longer the focal figure, now she is stretched out around the edge, arching over the child at the center. The child doesn’t look like Athos, any more than he supposes the women of these paintings look like Athos’ mother, and yet it _is_ Athos. In the heavy brushstrokes and deeply scored lines, there is the set of his chin, the blue of his eyes, the proud stance. He is looking away from his mother, out past the viewer and into the world. 

And in the curving body of the woman, in her outstretched hands and her fall of hair, is a universe. Her torso is a spinning galaxy of purple and gold and red and blue, her face is the silver moon, the sun rises between her feet. This is everything she would give to her child, d’Artagnan thinks, feeling hot tears sliding down his cheeks, and it is the knowledge that even with all of creation at his back, her child must still make his own way. 

He wonders if all mothers feel this, if his own did, that dark Neapolitan girl, whose eyes and mouth are the only keepsakes he has. What things did she want for him, what wishes did she whisper over his cot? Did she ask for wisdom, for comfort, for happiness? Surely she had no idea how soon they would be parted, how many years would be robbed from them. What would his path have been, had she been able to fold herself over him, like the woman in this painting, and keep his steps safe? 

Athos pulls d’Artagnan into his arms without a word, and they cling to each other, d’Artagnan shaking with silent tears while Athos murmurs and sighs. It’s all right. I know. I love you. I know. 

 

D'Artagnan ducks into a restroom while Athos goes to say goodbye to Thalia. He noisily blows his nose, tries to see if he can make his eyes less red by patting them with cold, wet paper towels. It doesn't work, so finally he just washes his face and goes back out to find Athos. They meet by the elevator, and descend in silence. 

He pleads a headache when they get back to the flat; Athos nods and asks if he minds company for a nap. He doesn't, and sinks gratefully into the cool sheets, and into Athos' embrace. He wakes once, to find that Athos has gone; he can hear movement, though, so he doesn't worry. Instead he turns over and steals Athos' pillow, burying his face in the scent of the linen, the spice of Athos' shaving soap, the mildly sweaty smell left by his hair. He counts his breaths, in and out, and falls asleep again before he reaches ten. 

Athos is already drunk when he gets up. 

It's not quite eight, and there are two empty bottles of wine on the kitchen table. There is also a stack of papers and folders, which means Athos tried to do some work, but now he sits on the sofa with another bottle in hand, staring at the windows. A bit of yellowish light filters in from the street. 

And it’s Athos, so two bottles might not even make a dent in his self-control, but when d’Artagnan moves closer, he sees two more on the floor, on the far side of the sofa. 

“Are you going to stand there all night?” Athos says, taking a long drink. His words are just a bit over-enunciated; his movement has the tiniest tremor. “Come in or fuck off, but don’t just stand there.” 

“Do you want to be alone?” d’Artagnan says, ignoring the sting of Athos’ words. He walks the rest of the way into the room, standing in front of Athos, who looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. 

“No,” he says after a long pause. 

D’Artagnan nods, relief making his own limbs shaky as he sits on the other end of the sofa. “Come here,” he requests quietly, patting his leg. 

Athos puts the wine on the floor after one more drink, then he curls in on himself, putting his head down with his back to the windows. His breath is damp through d’Artagnan’s thin pant leg, his head heavy and his cheek hot. D’Artagnan threads his fingers into Athos’ hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. Athos makes a soft, kittenish noise. 

This wouldn’t have been possible two weeks ago, d’Artagnan thinks, maybe not even one week ago, before Christmas, before everything they said and did in La Fère. This would’ve been the kind of night where Athos firmly dismissed him with a kiss on the forehead and a short ‘it’s not you it’s me’ speech. He would’ve done it before he even took the first drink, instead of letting d’Artagnan find him like this. 

“Do you want dinner?” he asks after a while, slowing his petting. Athos sighs, and shakes his head. 

“No, this,” he whispers. “This is enough.”  

 

It’s an odd sort of relief to go back to work on Tuesday. D’Artagnan has never been idle for so many days in his life; there was always work on the farm, of course, and downtime in the army was easily filled. On the few leaves he had where he was able to go back home, he was back on the farm again, pitching in wherever his father needed him. By the last day of their vacation, d’Artagnan’s started cleaning compulsively, Lina’s shouted at him three times for messing up her system, and Athos has started to laugh again. 

The Bourbons’ New Year party is, as Aramis had promised, a shitshow. It starts with cocktails and dinner for thirty-four people on the night of the 30th; the little party, as Madame calls it, goes well into the small hours. The guests are generally well behaved, if boisterous; they are closer friends and family. Armand du Plessis moves through the rooms like a shark, his latest mistress on his arm; like all of them, she’s a good thirty years younger than Armand, and very beautiful. D’Artagnan can’t remember how many the man’s been through since he started. 

After nearly a year of this, d’Artagnan finds himself more or less unimpressed with the models and the millionaires that float around the Bourbons. They’re just like any other people; some of them are lovely, some of them are pricks. He doesn’t care as long as they don’t get in his way. He spies Constance now and again, looking exquisite and competent with a tablet in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. 

Where it all goes to hell is the big party, the actual New Year’s Eve party. The gates are opened at four in the afternoon, and people are everywhere. Leaving aside the hundreds of invitees, there’s catering staff, delivery vans coming and going, musicians, extra servants. Some of the guests have brought their own security and their own assistants. Every single person has to be vetted, every box and bag checked. It isn’t so much difficult as it’s relentless. Athos is constantly in motion, relaying orders, moving agents around the house and grounds like chessmen. A fight between an actor and a shipping heir breaks out in the ballroom near midnight and Athos appears, an agent at each elbow, before d’Artagnan can even move toward the commotion. Around one a.m. a couple’s tearful, drunken argument turns violent; he slaps her, twice, and Athos has the man restrained in seconds, so d’Artagnan takes her for an ice pack and tries to convince her to let him call the police. She refuses. 

He sees Aramis flirting with a socialite old enough to be his mother while keeping an eye on the bartender who’s been eyeing the women’s jewelry; he sees Porthos remove a couple of teenagers who somehow made it past the gate, and the look on Porthos’ face makes it clear that someone won’t have a job in the morning. It just keeps going. 

They’re on for 18 straight, then catch a few hours sleep before the New Year’s Day luncheon. It’s in the solar at the back of the house, largely the same crowd as Tuesday’s dinner party, and most of the guests are hung over and sleepy. It proceeds so smoothly that it’s a shock when Armand’s girlfriend picks a fight with him near the end of the meal. He drags her away from the table by the elbow, making her stumble and lose a shoe; Louis calls out that Armand needs to learn to better control his women, and an ugly chuckle spreads around the room. 

It’s Aramis who goes to help the girl, picking up her shoe and intercepting them, as Armand is about to pull her out the door. 

“Are you all right?” he asks her; loud enough that d’Artagnan can hear him well across the room, which means every single guest did as well. 

“This is not a security matter,” Armand answers, not raising his voice but somehow his words are just as clear. “Excuse us.” 

The girl bobs her head and takes her shoe; as soon as she’s stuffed her foot into it, they leave. 

 

Even though their Christmas break was paid, d’Artagnan picks up a few overtime details in the following weeks to try to stanch the bleeding from his bank account. He’s not having to buy food most of the time, which is good, and his utilities bills are practically zero since he’s never in his flat – but the fact that he’s never in his flat means he’s paying for a place to store clothes he doesn’t wear and receive mail he doesn’t want. Money goes into his account and goes right back out again to the farm bills. He tries not to think about it much, but when he does, he wonders if his father would be okay with this, if any of the choices he’s made have been the right ones. 

He can’t bring himself to regret Athos, though. When he drags himself out of bed for another stupidly long day, and beside him Athos smiles sleepily and says good morning; when Athos meets him at the office or on a detail with a fresh cup of coffee and the look in his eye that promises d’Artagnan that later he’ll be able to let go completely… No. He can’t regret this, except to wish his father could have met this extraordinary man, to hope that they would have liked and respected each other as much as he loves them both. 

So the days pass like this, a sluggish river, still muddy from storms. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

He almost doesn’t pick up the call – it’s coming from a blocked number, and he’s just begun his shift, settling in with Porthos for one of Madame’s day-long photoshoots. It’s not exactly a hardship, watching a half-dozen of the world’s most beautiful women throwing their clothes off every few minutes, laughing and teasing and kissing each other, but like anything else, it can grow tedious. 

The beeping continues in his ear. He taps his earpiece, with a glance at Porthos. 

“D’Artagnan.” 

“M. D’Artagnan, this is Marion de la Fère.” 

He remembers the way Athos had reacted to Cécile’s mention of his cousin: _She’s terrifying_ , he’d said.

“Ah, Madame?” he stumbles. Porthos raises an eyebrow. 

“Just Marion is fine. I’ll be sending a car for you today; you’ll be picked up at 12:45. Lunch at one o’clock.”

“That’s not possible,” he protests. “I’m working, I can’t just walk out.”

“Of course you can’t. That’s taken care of. I look forward to meeting you.” 

She hangs up. 

“Yeah, mate,” Porthos is saying into his own phone when d’Artagnan turns back to him. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. See you.” 

“Was that…?” he asks weakly. 

“Athos. He’s coming to relieve you at 12:45.” Porthos gives him a speculative look. “What have you gotten yourself into?” 

He groans, covering his eyes with one hand. “I don’t even really know.”

Even so, at 12:40 he’s outside waiting, and at 12:42, Athos roars up on his bike. He parks carelessly on the sidewalk, pulling his helmet off and hanging it on one handlebar before swinging his leg over. His jeans, d’Artagnan notes absently, are new. They make his thighs look fantastic.

“Am I going to be taken to some warehouse downriver and shot?” he calls out as Athos walks up to him, and Athos shakes his head. 

“Nonsense,” Athos says. “She’d arrange for a tragic accident. You’d never see it coming.” 

“That’s not comforting.” 

Athos stops in front of him, reaches out and straightens the collar of his turtleneck – the one Athos gave him for Christmas. He’s glad that he wore it today; if Marion is on the lookout for a gold digger, maybe he doesn’t look as much the part as he might in one of his off the rack suits. 

Athos smoothes his hands over the shoulders of d’Artagnan’s leather jacket, pauses and frowns. “Give me your gun,” he says, and d’Artagnan shrugs out of the jacket, out of his holster, and passes the latter to Athos. 

“Anything else?” he asks, pulling his jacket back on. 

Athos slings the holster over his own shoulder, takes a glance at d’Artagnan’s shoes, and then reaches up with one hand and tugs the elastic out of d’Artagnan’s hair. It falls free, and Athos combs it with his fingers, tucks it behind d’Artagnan’s ears. 

“There,” he says quietly. “Presentable.”

D’Artagnan can’t keep the smile off his face; it’s a gray, drizzly day but he feels bathed in sun. “We’re at work,” he points out, as Athos hooks his forefingers in d’Artagnan’s belt loops. 

“Mm, you’ve signed out, and I haven’t yet signed in. So no, we are not at work.”

He is sure, moments later when he’s sliding into the back of the Mercedes idling at the curb, that the kiss lasted exactly one minute.

 

At one on the dot, the driver stops in front of an Italian restaurant in the Rue Saint-Sabin. D'Artagnan knows the place; it's about a ten-minute walk from Athos' flat, and it's always full. They had tried to get a table one evening, and Athos had refused the hour-long wait; they'd ended up back at the flat, and d'Artagnan had thrown together a not half-bad approximation of his mother's puttanesca recipe. 

It had been a lovely evening. 

He spots Marion immediately, at the back, by the window. The rest of the diners are in pairs or in groups, and the woman at the window table is the only one alone; she is on the phone, but she looks up just in time to catch d'Artagnan's eye. She beckons him forward; when the host steps toward d'Artagnan, she shoots the man a look, and holds up one finger, then points at her table. 

"Apologies,  _monsieur,"_ the host murmurs. "I did not realize you were Madame's guest. May I take your coat?"

“No, thank you,” d’Artagnan answers, rolling his shoulders. He gives the man a half-smile and nod, and proceeds to the table. 

Marion waves at the seat opposite. “Yes, I do understand your position,” she is saying, “but my understanding of it has nothing at all to do with whether or not I find it acceptable. And I have been quite clear – it is not.” She pauses, listening, and her voice grows colder when she responds. “No. No. Absolutely not.” 

She could be twenty-five, she could be forty-five, d’Artagnan thinks, looking her over as he sits; she is easily one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen, and that includes the supermodels he left behind at work. Her dark hair is in a messy chignon; she’s wearing skinny trousers and flats, an off-the-shoulder sweater exposing a camisole strap and a golden tan. She and Athos have the same nose, and the same blue eyes. 

“You’ve wasted enough of my time,” Marion says into the phone. “Didier will be following up by the close of market today. No, good-bye.” 

The person on the other end is audibly protesting when she takes the phone away from her ear and ends the call. She turns the ringer off, and puts it facedown on the table; when she turns her full attention on him, he can’t help thinking of the day he met Athos, of that brawl in the alley. It’s the same, that singular focus, that intensity. 

Athos is wrong, he thinks. This woman wouldn’t dispose of anyone by arranging for an accident. She would look you in the eye and tell you why she was doing it even as the knife slipped between your ribs.

“Marion de la Fère,” she says, holding out her hand. 

“Charles d’Artagnan,” he answers, taking it. It’s a brief, businesslike handshake. 

“And what do you like to be called?” Marion gestures to someone over d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and two glasses of white wine appear on the table a second later. 

“Just d’Artagnan,” he confirms. 

“D’Artagnan,” she repeats with a nod. “Is that a habit from the army? You were in for what, six years, was it?”

“Six and a half,” he says, nodding back and reaching for his wine. It’s a gentle opening move; she’s just testing to see his style, how he’ll counter. “About as long as you’ve been running Groupe Picard, I think?” 

“Close.” She leans a bit forward, putting her chin on one hand. Her eyes are bright and amused. “A little over seven years.”

“Well, then.” He lifts his glass and tips it toward her. “ _Santé_.” 

“ _Et tu,”_ she replies with an ironic lift of one eyebrow, clinking her glass to his. 

“I think you’ve done a bit more than Google me,” d’Artagnan says after a sip. The wine is just the right temperature, light and tart. “Do you want to tell me all about myself?” 

“It’s refreshing to speak to someone who doesn’t cower,” she says instead, saluting him again with her glass. “I tend to get very predictable, very boring, reactions.” 

He shrugs. “I have no reason to be afraid of you.” 

He was, at first, after her call. Those first few hours from then until it was time for him to go, thinking about who she was to Athos, about the little he’d been told and the things he’d read. But getting in the car had felt like getting on a plane that he knew he was going to have to jump out of. Once the plane takes off, there’s no going back, the only way out is down. And once you’ve accepted that, a sense of peace settles in. You’ve trained for this, you know when to pull, and you know how to land. If something goes wrong, you’ll deal with it. 

“No,” Marion says, the corner of her mouth curving up. “I don’t believe you do.”

 

 _Done here_ , he texts to Athos a couple of hours later, standing on the pavement outside the restaurant.  _Do you want me back at the job?_

 _No need,_  Athos responds, almost immediately.  _They're wrapping up. Madame wishes to go home and rest, so we'll hand it off to household._

D'Artagnan waves off Marion's offer of a ride home; they kiss each other's cheeks and she slides into the car, already on her phone. 

His own phone chimes in his hand. 

_Are you OK?_

He smiles at the screen, and gets his reply half tapped out when another message comes in. 

_I hope she didn't upset you she comes on very strong but she's really just worried. I wanted you to meet. Not like this but I hope it's alright._

He's backspacing through his reply to revise it when the third message arrives. 

_What the hell does she mean? "He was delicious, see you for dessert" ??_

D'Artagnan gives up and dials. 

“Explain,” Athos demands when he picks up. 

“We had lunch in Rue Saint-Sabin, so I’m walking home. To your place,” he corrects. “And unless you’ve got something else very pressing this evening, we’re meeting Marion and Carlo at nine for coffee.”

“I have work to do tonight.” 

“You told me at breakfast you were going to watch the rest of _House of Cards_ on your iPad and if I interrupted you, I’d be sleeping _under_ the bed.” 

“I think this counts as an interruption, don’t you?” Athos answers sweetly.  

“It’s _coffee_ ,” d’Artagnan says, exasperated. He stops at a corner, frowning at the lights. “It might, at a stretch, be cake and coffee and a _Vecchia Romagna._ ” 

“That shit is revolting.” 

“So you can skip the brandy and have a second slice of cake, Athos, I don’t _care_ , I just.” The light changes and he hurries across the street, dodging a cyclist as he goes. “I just thought you’d be happy it went well.” 

“I’ve got to go,” Athos says. “I’ll talk to you later.” 

It’s all d’Artagnan can do not to hurl his phone into traffic. 

He’s mostly calmed down by the time he finishes the walk to Athos’ flat; he lets himself in and surprises Lina, who’s just finishing up. She clucks over his expression, says he looks exhausted and asks if he ate; his sides are still groaning with _pizza alla salsiccia_ from lunch, but he allows her to fix him a cup of tea and order him to bed.

When he hears Athos come home, he’s still lying on his side, stripped down to his undershirt, staring at the wall. It’s been impossible to sleep, he has no idea how long has passed, but the room has grown dim and chilly. He closes his eyes, listens to the familiar footsteps moving around the flat. The sound of the fridge – no, the wine fridge, judging from the echoing pop that sounds a few moments later. 

Athos remains silent when he walks into the bedroom, but d’Artagnan hears two familiar clicks from behind him, two full glasses being put down on the night table. He waits for the sound of Athos undressing, but there’s nothing but silence, and then the bed dips as Athos settles in behind him. 

He’s pulled into Athos’ arms, feels Athos resting his forehead on the back of his neck, the warmth of Athos’ breath, let out in a long sigh. D’Artagnan lets his own head fall forward, and Athos kisses his way down d’Artagnan’s nape, stopping to press his face into d’Artagnan’s shoulder. 

“I’m sorry I hung up on you,” Athos says, voice muffled. “I’m sorry I reacted so badly.”

“I just don’t understand you,” d’Artagnan says after a moment, his voice soft and tired. “You warn me about her, but you say you want us to meet, and you apologize in case it went badly, but then you get angry when it goes well. I can’t keep up.” 

“Sorry,” Athos whispers again. “I’m sorry.”

D’Artagnan turns in Athos’ arms, faces him across the minute distance. “Just talk to me. I hate it when you won’t talk to me.” 

“I went for a ride. To clear my head.” Athos brings one hand into the space between their bodies, rests his fingertips in the hollow at the base of d’Artagnan’s throat. “I didn’t want to come home while I was still angry.”

“All right.” 

“I wasn’t angry at you. I’m just… not good at this.” 

“Not good at talking?”

“At family.” Athos’s eyelashes dip; he turns his hand over, trails his knuckles up d’Artagnan’s neck, up over his chin, across his lips. D’Artagnan shivers. 

“We can cancel,” he offers, kissing the back of Athos’ middle finger. It’s been broken at some point, and healed just a little crooked. 

“I just don’t see the point,” Athos says, his own throat rippling as he swallows. “Spending an hour making small talk with people who hate me.” 

“Oh.” D’Artagnan kisses Athos’ fingers again to keep from smiling. “How about a trade?”

“Hm?”

“I’ll give you three hours right now, if you’ll give me one with Marion later.” 

Athos gazes at him, eyes hooded, then pushes up on one elbow to look at the clock. “Four,” he bargains. 

“Three and a half, or we’ll be late.” 

“Four, I don’t give a fuck if we’re late.” 

“Three and a half, and I won’t come until after we get back.” 

Athos’ eyes blaze. “No wonder Marion liked you,” he says, leaning down but not quite touching d’Artagnan’s lips with his. “Sold.” 

 

The thing that d’Artagnan knows that Athos doesn’t, he thinks as he’s carefully easing into a pair of jeans slightly more than three and a half hours later, is that Marion loves her cousin, worries about him, and misses him. She hates that he won’t talk to her, that he rarely will see her beyond his minimum obligation of one board meeting a year, and for a woman who is used to making the world bend to her will, Athos’ recalcitrance is incredibly frustrating. Cécile had called her again after their meeting on Christmas, however, and Marion had found Cece’s report encouraging.

 _I’ll get him there,_ d’Artagnan had promised her, _but you have to do your part._

Athos is still petting him, still gentling him out of his headspace, doing up the buttons of d’Artagnan’s shirt in between murmurs of praise and kisses. He runs his fingers through Athos’ hair (one side is sticking up spectacularly), and smiles at him. 

“I’m fine,” he says, kissing Athos’ mouth firmly. He is. He’s still pretty weak-kneed, but he can manage the short walk over to Marion’s. His thoughts are calm and fluid. “We can go.” 

“You’re not wearing shoes,” Athos points out. D’Artagnan shrugs. 

“Then get me some shoes.” 

The evening is damp and windy, and d’Artagnan sticks to Athos’ side as they walk to the address that Marion gave him. It’s a tall, narrow, red brick townhouse in the Rue Pecquay; the shutters are pulled over most of the windows, but there are lights shining on every storey. It’s warm, he thinks, looking up at the windows. 

Athos is looking up too, an expression of incredible sadness on his face. Longing, d’Artagnan thinks. He squeezes Athos’ hand.

“Ready?”

“No,” Athos says, but he steps forward and presses the buzzer anyway.

There’s a burst of static from the speaker, and then Marion’s voice. “D’Artagnan? The fucking camera’s broken again, sorry.”

“It’s me, Mimi,” Athos says gruffly, his fingers tight on d’Artagnan’s.

A pause, and then: “Athos. Did you bring your handsomer half?”

The muscle in Athos’ jaw jumps and he jabs the button again. “Let us in, fuck’s sake. It’s cold.”

He’s not even finished speaking when the door unlocks. Athos tugs d’Artagnan behind him into a dim entryway; a flight of stairs leads up to a wide landing, where Marion stands in front of an open door.

She’s dressed exactly as she had been earlier, only now there’s what looks like a tea stain down the front of her sweater, and her hair is exploding from its pins in a halo of frizz.

“You missed bath time,” she says, hands on her hips. 

“Oh God,” Athos groans. “Did you tell them I was coming?” 

“I did.” Marion leans in and pulls Athos into her arms; they kiss each other’s cheeks, then she steps away from Athos and greets d’Artagnan the same way. “You better come in,” she adds. “Carlo can’t hold them back for long.” 

For some reason, d’Artagnan is expecting dogs, not children, to be what comes barreling down the stairs, moments after Marion has closed the door behind them. Two little bodies, all windmilling arms and flying black curls, shrieking _Oncle! Oncle!_ at the top of their voices. The taller one collides with Athos’ legs, and wraps itself around them like a koala on a branch. 

“Who are you?” demands the littler one. Her pajamas are bright purple, with green and white feet ending in felted claws, like a lizard’s. She glares up at d’Artagnan, mouth open to reveal two missing bottom teeth. 

“Rude,” Athos chides, detaching the other child, whose pajamas are pink and covered with cartoon ponies, from his legs and swinging her onto his hip. She’s a bit too big for it; her feet dangle in a way that looks terribly uncomfortable, but she buries her face in Athos’ neck and all but strangles him with her arms. “That’s Chiara,” Athos says, pointing to the purple-pajamaed child, “and this is Giancarlo.” He hitches the child in his arms, and d’Artagnan mentally corrects his gender assumption. 

“Hi,” he says, smiling at the children. 

“And this is Oncle’s boyfriend,” Marion says, putting her hand on d’Artagnan’s arm.  

Giancarlo lifts his head off Athos’ shoulder, and fixes d’Artagnan with what he is coming to recognize as the de la Fère eyes, those piercing blue eyes. The boy’s features are delicate, and he’s much fairer than his sister. “What do you like to be called?” he asks in a sweet, high voice. “Please call me Gianni.” 

D’Artagnan understands suddenly, the question, the same question Marion had asked him earlier, making the child’s apparent contradictions coalesce into a clear picture. He beams. “Please call me d’Artagnan, Gianni,” he says. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

Marion spares him a brief smile, and squeezes his elbow. “All right,” she says, “bed time, come on. _Andiamo!_ ” She claps her hands. 

The kids groan and protest, and Gianni clings even tighter to Athos. “But we haven’t seen Oncle in _forever_ ,” he sighs. 

“How about,” Athos offers, “you let me get my coat off, and then I’ll take you up to bed? Is that all right?”

“Pleeeease??” the kids screech at their mother. She rolls her eyes.

“If Oncle is willing, it’s all right.” 

“Of course,” Athos says, dropping Gianni to the floor and shrugging out of his coat. He passes it over to Marion, grinning at the kids and they’re beaming back at him, light reflected and magnified. D’Artagnan barely notices handing his own coat off, he can’t tear his eyes from how _easy_ Athos is with them, how gentle and attentive. He sweeps Gianni back into his arms, with Chiara imperiously leading the way up the stairs. The back of her pajamas is decorated with floppy green fins, and a hood dangles from the neck. Athos is whispering something, and Gianni is giggling. 

“He’s always like that, with them,” Marion says quietly. She opens a closet hidden in the paneled wall, and hangs both coats, beckoning d’Artagnan to follow her when that’s done. 

“It’s amazing,” he says honestly. “I was not expecting that.” He pauses, rethinking his words. “Athos, I mean. I basically had to drag him out the door.”

Marion leads the way to a small, book-lined room; she indicates the several options for seating with a sweep of her hand. He chooses one of the plump leather couches that face each other across an intricate floral rug, and Marion drops down across from him, stretching her arms over her head until something audibly pops. She sits back with a sigh. 

“Things I refuse to do,” she says, “include discussing my children in the press, answering any kind of question about ‘having it all’ as both a parent and businesswoman, and for those few who may meet my children, disclaiming or prefacing the introduction of my son.”

“You want to see how people honestly react to him,” d’Artagnan says, nodding. “If people see a little boy who likes pink and have something against that, or if they insist on calling him ‘she,’ that sort of thing. I get it.” 

“So you do.”  Marion smiles faintly, pushing her hair off her forehead with the back of her wrist.  “He’s always had a way with them, especially Gianni. Gianni was born before – he’s almost nine. He asserted his correct gender very early on, and Athos just. He _always_ knew what to do, what to say. Gianni worships him. Chiara is five. She’s never known Athos as anyone other than the fascinating, mysterious Oncle who comes in on a breeze, and leaves when the wind changes.” 

“Sorry,” Athos says from the doorway. D’Artagnan turns; Athos is standing with his hands in his pockets, shoulders turned forward. “Sorry, I knew this was a bad idea—“ 

“Let me guess,” Marion cuts in with a frown. “You heard the very last thing I said, and missed the part where I said my children adore you, and you are wonderfully good with them?” 

“Ah.” Athos looks at his feet, then at the wall over Marion’s head. 

“Come sit down?” d’Artagnan asks, patting the cushion beside him. “C’mon, you promised an hour.” 

“Carlo’s tucking the kids in,” Athos says, answering neither of them, still looking past Marion. “I just came to tell you I was going to spend a few minutes reading to Gianni.”

There is a chance that Athos will react badly, but d’Artagnan gambles anyway: he stands up and takes Athos’ hand, and presses a warm kiss to Athos’ mouth. “Don’t be too long?” 

He bet well: the look Athos gives him is nakedly grateful. Athos brushes his lips over d’Artagnan’s cheek. “I won’t,” he promises. “School night.” He gives Marion a half nod before he retreats. 

When d’Artagnan turns back, Marion is sitting with her elbow on the back of the couch, head propped on her hand. She eyes him, and he spreads his hands. “What?”

“You play him like a _maestro_ ,” she says, and d’Artagnan feels his temper flare. 

“We’ve been through this—“ he begins, and Marion puts up a hand. 

“Do you think I would have you in my home if I meant it like that? God, you’re a match for him, no wonder you handle him so well.” 

It’s a struggle to let go of the insult, intended or not, and d’Artagnan is relieved to be spared the necessity of response when the man he presumes to be Carlo walks into the room. Carlo looks to be fortyish, no taller than Marion and slightly built. He has messy black curls and a heavy beard flecked with silver, little round glasses slipping down his nose. The front tails of his white shirt are wet, and d’Artagnan recalls Marion’s mention of bath time. 

“Carlo Campanella,” he says, offering his hand for a warm shake. “You must be d’Artagnan, no? You’re the big news in this house today.” 

“Yes,” he says, nodding his confirmation. At first he’s just bowled over by the man’s voice – he’s fairly certain the last time he heard a Neapolitan accent in France was his mother’s, and his eight year old heart screams inside his chest. Then the introduction processes, and he realizes that in all their conversation, Marion had never mentioned her husband’s full name. “Oh! You. You made that film. ‘ _‘A famma fa ascì ‘o lupo_ ,’ about the _Quartieri Spagnoli._ My, my mother grew up there.” 

Carlo’s face lights up, and he takes d’Artagnan by the shoulders, kissing his cheeks and pulling him into a tight embrace. He launches into a flood of Napolitano that d’Artagnan can’t keep up with, and he has to put his hand up, begging for mercy in French. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, feeling himself redden. “My mother died when I was young. I never had a chance to learn much from her.” 

“That is a shame,” Carlo says, slinging his arm over d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “I’m in a mess of editing right now, but I can teach you. You’ll be around?” 

“He’ll be around,” Marion says confidently, and her expression is too serene to be a smirk, but too amused to be called anything else. 

D’Artagnan and Carlo talk about Naples, about the fact that other than the trip with his dad when he was ten, the only time he’s been there was a fortnight at the NATO JFC and he’d never left the base. Talk turns to the military; Carlo wants to know what d’Artagnan thinks about films like _Restrepo_ and _Korengal_ , about fictionalizations like _Zero Dark Thirty_. 

They’re arguing about the ethics of interventionism when Athos comes in, followed by Marion. He hadn’t even noticed her leaving, and sees that she’s carrying a tray with four steaming demitasse on it, and a mismatched creamer and sugar bowl. 

He glances at his watch, and sees that it’s almost quarter to ten. Athos catches him looking, and tousles his hair. “I’m fine,” Athos says in a low voice, dropping into a chair near where d’Artagnan sits. Close enough to reach out and touch, if either of them wanted. 

“We’ve just been in the kitchen, catching up,” Marion says to the unasked question, “while you two were bonding.” She stirs a spoonful of sugar into her cup. “You should’ve seen them, Athos. The dueling gestures, it’s a wonder neither of them put the other’s eye out.” 

Carlo laughs. “You do it too,” he says, pointing at her. “When you’re home, off your guard, you talk just like I do.” 

With her free hand, Marion flicks her fingers under her chin at her husband. He snorts. 

Athos pours a shot of milk into one cup and passes it to d’Artagnan. Their fingers brush, and the look Athos gives him is inexpressibly fond. He remembers when he couldn’t read Athos at all, when he’d question every look, always wondering if what he thought he saw in Athos’ face was only what he wanted to see. Now Athos is so open, and d’Artagnan wonders if he’s done right, if he’s pushed the man to strip off his armor for selfish reasons, if his need to see what was underneath has only left Athos open to more pain. 

“Thank you,” d’Artagnan murmurs, and takes the coffee. 

“Still on the honeymoon, I see,” Carlo comments. He takes his espresso straight and black. “Tell me how you met.”

“Ah, well,” d’Artagnan fumbles. I thought he murdered my father? I shoved a gun in his face? 

“We work together,” Athos says smoothly. He hitches one shoulder. “Technically I’m his boss, but technically I don’t give a shit.”

The blunt assessment makes d’Artagnan laugh, and Carlo grin, but Athos goes on, his eyes never leaving d’Artagnan’s face. 

“The first moment I saw him, I thought he was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. The first words we ever exchanged were in a terrible argument, and all I could think was how fucking gorgeous he was. I wanted to go to my knees right there.” 

“I know the feeling,” Carlo says, slanting a look at Marion. 

D’Artagnan swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He’s gripping his cup of coffee and the heat is burning his palm but he barely feels it. 

“It took me months to finally express my interest,” Athos finishes with a wry smile, turning back toward Marion. “I wish I’d done it sooner. But it does seem to have worked out all right.” 

“Fate,” Carlo says in a philosophical tone. “Is everything that happens meant to happen, by the simple virtue that it _has_ happened?”  

“Ugh, spare me,” Marion says, tossing back the rest of her espresso like a shot. “Carlo, don’t you have editing to do?”

“Not a drop of romance, you soulless whore,” he answers amiably. “I do, I have a huge amount of footage to get through and a rough cut deadline hanging over my head. So this will have to be good night.” 

“We also have an early morning,” Athos says, standing up, and it’s a lie, Athos is off and d’Artagnan doesn’t have anything until eleven, but the promised hour is up, and d’Artagnan can’t bring himself to contradict. 

They say their goodbyes at the door, exchanging hugs and kisses; Carlo promises to call and make a date for Napolitano lessons when he’s freed up some time, and Marion holds Athos tightly for a moment, whispering in his ear. He nods, teeth scraping his lip, and she strokes his cheek. 

They’re silent as they make their way down to the street, out into the cold. Athos’ hand finds d’Artagnan’s, chilly and ungloved, and squeezes. 

“She told me,” he says after a moment, “she cornered me upstairs and said come down, there’s something I need to say to you. And she told me.” Athos pauses, frowning down at the icy sidewalk. “She said, I wish you would stop walking away from me, from everyone. I wish I could make you believe that nobody hates you, nobody needs to forgive you because nobody blames you. And I said, how do I know that’s true? And she said, you’re here, aren’t you?” 

“Athos...” D’Artagnan stops, turning into Athos’ path, ready to apologize, ready to own that this was his bad idea. He puts his hand on Athos’ chest.

Athos covers it with his own and, far from looking upset, he smiles. “Thank you,” he whispers, leaning in for a soft kiss. “Thank you for bringing me back.” 

 

Despite their earlier agreement, neither of them hurries toward the bedroom when they return to the flat. Athos makes a cup of tea and puts a generous splash of whiskey in it; he offers the same to d’Artagnan, who shakes his head. 

“I don’t need any more caffeine,” he says, moving up behind Athos in the kitchen. He slides his arms around Athos’ waist, hooks his chin over Athos’ shoulder. “Working second shift, but still working tomorrow.” 

“I just need to.” Athos shrugs, jostling d’Artagnan’s head. “Decompress a bit. I’m glad we went, I just need a little time.”

D’Artagnan hugs him gently, kisses the side of his neck. “I’m going to take a shower and go lie down, if that’s all right.” 

“Of course.” Athos covers d’Artagnan’s arms with his, and hugs back. “I’ll be in soon.” 

D’Artagnan is drifting, dreaming, just barely asleep, when Athos finally joins him. He blinks drowsily, stretches and yawns. In the dim blue light from the street, he sees Athos smile. 

“I owe you something,” Athos whispers, pressing his body, naked and shower-damp, along d’Artagnan’s side. There is the slightest smell of whiskey on his breath when they kiss. D’Artagnan sighs, turning into the embrace. 

“How much did you have?” he asks, and Athos shakes his head. 

“Just the one tea,” he answers, his voice a drowsy rumble. He bumps his lips against d’Artagnan’s. “But we can call it off for tonight, if you’re not feeling safe.” 

“I always feel safe with you,” d’Artagnan says honestly, twisting to rock against Athos. “Green,” he sighs. 

“You’re so fucking lovely,” Athos sighs. He slides his hand down d’Artagnan’s back, over his ass. “Are you still open for me?” 

“Mm,” d’Artagnan confirms. “I did. Before bed.” 

Athos hisses when his fingers find the slickness around d’Artagnan’s hole; he rubs around the rim for a moment before pushing two in, and both men moan softly when d’Artagnan opens with little resistance. 

“So good,” Athos says, fingering d’Artagnan gently. “You were so good tonight, when I was fucking you, so beautiful, how you take it… mmm.” 

D’Artagnan has to shift to kiss Athos, and that pushes his ass back onto Athos’ hand. He rocks on Athos’ fingers, breathing hard against Athos’ mouth. 

“Slut,” Athos murmurs, like it’s the tenderest endearment, his eyes soft and smiling. 

“Just for you,” d’Artagnan sighs back. “Just yours.”

“My slut?” 

“Mmmm-hm. Yours.” 

Athos slips his hand free and d’Artagnan only has a second to protest before Athos is flipping him down to the bed, onto his belly, pushing d’Artagnan’s thighs apart with his knees. He feels the sweaty press of Athos’ chest along his back, the sting of one of Athos’ hands getting a grip in his hair. 

“And is my slut going to come for me?” he purrs in d’Artagnan’s ear. His breath is hot, and d’Artagnan shivers. 

“Yes,” he moans. “Yes.” 

He’s not really under but it’s a similar kind of letting go, letting his body relax into Athos’ hands, his brain still fuzzy with sleep. Athos’ touch disappears for a moment, returns again to pull d’Artagnan’s head up by his hair. He whines, arches his back, and is rewarded with the heated press of Athos’ cock, slow at first, then shoving roughly deeper. 

He doesn’t know how long it goes on, just that he’s shaking, he’s gasping for air like Athos is holding his throat instead of his hip. He can feel mingled sweat and tears running down his face, and Athos fucks him harder, strong, steady strokes, his grip tight in d’Artagnan’s hair. 

“What do you need?” Athos asks finally. “What does this little slut need?”

“Just you,” d’Artagnan sobs, bracing his forearms on the bed. He tries to blink the sweat out of his eyes and they burn. “Just you, make me come, please. Please.”

“All right,” Athos says, “I’ve got you, it’s all right.” 

He’s not sure, he might start coming the moment that Athos touches his cock, it might take a few strokes, it doesn’t really matter. It feels so fucking good, he’s so used to holding on for so much longer; he feels like he’s been drowning, and this is the first clear breath at the surface. He cries and he shakes, and Athos holds him up, holds him close in his arms, telling him again and again how good he is. How perfect, how precious. 

D’Artagnan drops back to his elbows, panting. He feels Athos petting the back of his neck. 

“Finish,” he croaks out. “Finish in me.”

Athos’ hand stills, and tightens. “What’s that?”

“Come in me,” d’Artagnan whispers, tilting his hips where Athos is still hard inside him. “Come in your slut.” 

“Mine,” Athos growls, drawing back and fucking in hard. D’Artagnan nods his head, unable to speak, but Athos doesn’t seem to want any more words. He fucks d’Artagnan mercilessly, rougher than he’s been in ages, pushing d’Artagnan’s face down into the pillows. He’s able to turn his head enough to breathe but only just, and it feels amazing. It feels so amazing. 

Athos loses his balance when he comes; they crash to the mattress and Athos bites hard on d’Artagnan’s shoulder, probably an accident but it makes d’Artagnan’s cock jerk. He laughs, trying to struggle free of the mess of limbs and sheets, and he hears Athos’ breathless echo behind him. 

“Jesus Christ,” Athos says, rolling onto his back and flinging out a proprietary hand, running his sticky fingers down d’Artagnan’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I am so good,” he answers, stretching and curling his toes. “God. That was so worth waiting for.” 

“It really was.” 

When d’Artagnan turns his head he sees Athos’ tired, sweaty smile, and his stomach tightens. He reaches over and brushes Athos’ hair back from his forehead. “You need another shower.”

“So do you.” Athos smiles again, and d’Artagnan thinks it’s the sweetest thing that he’s ever seen. “Wake me in five minutes?” He wipes his hands on the corner of the sheet, turning and settling.

“Sure,” d’Artagnan lies. He pulls the covers back up over them, hitching away from the mess on his side of the bed, and snuggles close to Athos. The last thing he remembers is the low, peaceful sound of Athos’ snore.

 

Athos is waiting by his bike when d’Artagnan staggers out of the TS building at nearly 11 o’clock the next night. 

His shift had been over at 7, but the handoff had been a disaster. The relief team was almost two hours late and d’Artagnan and Porthos had been stuck going with Louis first to dinner, then to an incredibly loud, crowded club – a club that wasn’t vetted for security, but Louis had insisted, and the driver had given in. Then the club’s own security staff had taken exception to d’Artagnan and Porthos’ presence, Mandel from the head office had to be called in, the relief team finally caught up, then du Plessis had fucking shown up to bawl out Mandel, and all the while Louis was sitting at the VIP table with a couple of German business associates, laughing at increasingly shrill volumes, and ignoring the whole mess. 

“I quit,” d’Artagnan says, taking the helmet Athos offers. “I fucking quit.” 

Athos looks startled. “All right,” he says, nodding slowly. “Let’s talk about it at home, we’ll figure something out.” 

D’Artagnan sighs. “I didn’t _actually_ quit. I just. Ugh.” He crams the helmet on his head, and climbs on the back of the bike. 

“I see.” Athos makes an unreadable face, and then pulls his own helmet on. “All right,” he repeats, and tips his head back to knock his helmet into d’Artagnan’s. “Hold on.” 

 

Once back at the flat, d’Artagnan promptly falls asleep on the sofa while waiting for food to be delivered. He manages to sleep through Athos taking his shoes and his belt off, and only wakes when Athos moves him to be able to sit. He grumbles and shifts; when Athos settles, he puts his head on Athos’ lap, and curls up under the soft cashmere throw that’s been laid over him.

“There’s  _phở_  in the refrigerator,” Athos says quietly, running his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, rubbing at the remaining tension in his neck. “If you’re hungry.”

“Starved,” d’Artagnan mumbles. “But too tired to move.”

“Would you like me to bring you something?”

“No, mm. Just keep doing that.” D’Artagnan pushes against Athos’ hand, and hears a soft laugh.

He’s almost fallen back to sleep when Athos clears his throat, and d’Artagnan opens his eyes, turning a bit to try to see Athos’ expression. He can’t really tell, and he frowns.

“What is it? Has your leg gone numb?”

“No, it’s fine.” Athos’ tone is warm and fond. “I wanted to ask you something tonight, but it can wait till you’re actually awake.”

“Ask me.” D’Artagnan rubs his face on Athos’ thigh and yawns. “I’m awake enough.”

Athos turns his hand, and trails the back of his hand over d’Artagnan’s cheek.  “Move in with me?” he says, gentle and hopeful. “Move in here.  Please?”

He thinks that he should feel excitement, anticipation, nerves, but there’s none of that. If pressed, d’Artagnan thinks, he’d name the feeling satisfaction. He feels so full of love that he thinks he could live on it, and it alone, for weeks.

“Yes,” he says to the satiny corduroy of Athos’ trouser leg, smiling. “Yes, that would be… really good.”

“Come here,” Athos orders softly, and d’Artagnan twists and shifts to sit up, lets Athos draw him close for a slow, deep kiss.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan repeats, just for the joy of saying it, wrapping his arms around Athos’ neck.

“Good.” Athos is smiling broadly, and he’s the one who looks nervous and excited. D’Artagnan kisses him again.

“So that’s settled,” he says, bumping their noses together.

“Apparently,” Athos agrees, nipping at d’Artagnan’s lip. “You can break your lease. If there’s a penalty, I’ll pay it, all right? I don’t want you to worry about that.”

D’Artagnan nods. “That’s fine, but. I’ll pay for things. If I’m not paying rent, I can manage a little more.”

“You don’t have to,” Athos says, furrowing his brow. “But we can talk about details tomorrow. I don’t think either of us are up for negotiations tonight.”

“Mm, agreed.” D’Artagnan leans in for another kiss, and another, and another. “Tomorrow.”

“We have time,” Athos says, and he sounds so awed by the idea that d’Artagnan hugs him close, and doesn’t let go.

 

“We’re both off on Saturday,” d’Artagnan says over breakfast in the morning, industriously shoveling granola and yogurt into his mouth. “If you don’t mind helping me pack…?”

Athos glances up from the file he’s reading, and gives him a quizzical look. “Shouldn’t you hire removal men? Even if you’re putting most of your things in storage, it’s still a big job—what?”

D’Artagnan grins, shaking his head. “Furnished flat.” He gestures with his spoon. “It’ll take about fifteen minutes to get my clothes together, and maybe another fifteen to pack up the kitchen. Less, probably, I’ve already brought most of my good kitchen things over here.”  

“That’s all?” Athos still looks skeptical. “You don’t have… stuff?”

“I don’t know what it was like for you, with a commission and all, but I was enlisted.” D’Artagnan shrugs. “I had shared base housing when I wasn’t in a billet in Afghanistan, I had a footlocker with a handful of junk in it, nothing special. I had my different uniforms and PT clothes, a couple of sets of civvies… that was it. That’s all I’ve carried around for years.” 

“Surely you had things at your father’s house.” Athos frowns, realizing what he’s said. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless.” 

“No, it’s fine.” D’Artagnan reaches across the table, hooks two of his fingers around Athos’. “All the furnishings were left for the tenants. Beds, tables, chairs, the lot. My father grew up in a big family but… it was just us, eventually? So there were a lot of dusty rooms.” 

“Familiar,” Athos murmurs, with a faint twist of his mouth. 

“Yeah, so… I wasn’t going to truck all of that to Paris, when I could only afford a small flat anyway. Papa’s books and things are boxed up and locked in the attic. A few things of mine, I guess.” He shrugs again. “I’ve never been a saver.”

His mother, he does not say, had passed on her lack of material sentimentality to him; she was not one for mementos and souvenirs, she rarely let herself be photographed. Things past their usefulness were discarded; to her there was no romance in hanging on to what was worn out or broken. After she was gone it was hard to find her anywhere.

“All right,” Athos says, bringing d’Artagnan’s fingers up to kiss them. 

"Eat your breakfast," d'Artagnan says, tugging his hand away, feeling oddly embarrassed. "We have places to be."

The gym, in particular, and then for him, another Louis detail. He makes a face, stabbing at his bowl with his spoon, both his good mood and his yogurt suddenly tasting sour. Another Louis detail. He could really, really stand to be at the spa with Madame today.

"You don't have to do this, you know."  

When d'Artagnan looks up, Athos is watching him. He holds his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, regarding d'Artagnan over the rim with an almost casual expression.  

"Do... what?" 

Athos blinks. "Work?" He takes a sip from his cup, and puts it down very deliberately.

"Ah, yes, I do." d'Artagnan frowns. "I know you have a job because you like to keep busy, and you don't like throwing your money around, and that's very nice for you, but I don't have that option. Even if I'm saving on rent by moving in here, there's still bills to pay."

Athos tilts his head, his brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize," he says, and drums his fingers on the tabletop. 

"It's all farm stuff. The property taxes, the income taxes, the fucking mortgage, there's bank notes on some of the equipment, do you know how much a good tractor costs? About as much as a Ferrari. And I have to cover all that."

Athos looks alarmed, then frowns darkly, and d'Artagnan thinks for a moment that he's made a mistake in explaining this, that Athos is about to offer him money.  Worse, he fears that he might choke down his pride and actually take it. 

"Why isn't that covered in the lease?" is what Athos says instead, and d'Artagnan stares.  

"Your tenants should be covering most of that," Athos goes on, scratching his chin. "What's the lease per hectare?" He takes the pen he was using to mark up a file, and flips a page over. 

"Uh. It's eight thousand a month."

"But for how much property?" Athos presses. 

"One hundred sixty-five hectares. And the house is €2000 a month."

Athos scribbles on the page. "D'Artagnan, that's less than €50 per hectare.  _And_  you're paying all the bank notes? That's. You're being  _robbed_." He puts his pen down with a snap. 

"I thought you said you were bad at finance," d'Artagnan says weakly. 

"I'm shit at money markets," Athos says, raising one eyebrow. "I'm shit at investment strategy, and I was shit at managing the people who  _aren't_ shit at all that. But I can do basic math, and I know what a fair price for agricultural tenancy is, because I lease out most of the La Fère property for grazing land. The group holds some other farms as well." 

"I thought it was a fair price." D'Artagnan shifts, looking away from Athos and down at the table. "This big farmer from the next town who knew my father. I dealt with him directly, but it’s his son who’s the actual tenant. I thought... it was a fair price," he repeats. 

"You thought it was a fair price," Athos asks gently, "or he  _told_ you it was a fair price?" 

He knows he's given Athos the answer by the way his shoulders hunch. He scrapes at a spot on the table with his thumbnail. "There was a lot happening, at the time." 

"I know." 

He hears Athos' chair scrape back, and a moment later Athos is behind him, folding him in his arms. Athos kisses the top of d'Artagnan's head, and d'Artagnan puts one hand up, holding Athos' wrist. 

"It's a year, soon," he says softly. 

"I know," Athos says again, and hugs him tightly before letting go. "Right, go back to bed, I'm calling you in sick. I've got things to do in the office, but I'll make it a short day, and if you want, we can go see my cousin Guy later." 

"Yes to the first part," d'Artagnan says with a grateful sigh. "Explain the second?" 

"He could renegotiate the lease," Athos says carefully, circling the table to gather up his papers and his phone. "That's... if you want that. If the present tenants are unwilling, or unable to pay fair market value for the farm, then he can help you find people who will. If the farm's profitable and under good management, you might even get some capital investors to help expand, or upgrade... Whatever you want."

D'Artagnan swallows hard. "It's just a meeting, right, I don't have to agree to anything on the spot?"

"You don't have to agree to anything at all." Athos gives him a crooked smile. "I just... I didn't realize. I didn't know you were killing yourself to pay for it all, and you shouldn't have to. If nothing else, Guy can give you some legal advice, and some options to think about." 

"All right." D'Artagnan nods. "Yeah, set it up." 

 

Guy de la Fère Dzidzienyo has the family eyes, the blue all the more striking against his dark skin; his shoulder-length braids are tied back, showing gold rings in both ears. His suit looks like it cost more than a small house. As soon as they walk into his office in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, he grabs Athos like a child separated from its mother, hugging him so hard that d'Artagnan thinks he hears something pop.

“God, it’s good to see you Olivier,” Guy says when he lets go, then shakes his head. “Sorry. Athos. Marion’s always reminding me.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Athos says. His smile is cautious, but d’Artagnan can tell it’s sincere. “This is Charles d’Artagnan—“

“—just d’Artagnan is fine,” he says, offering his hand. 

“—my partner,” Athos finishes, on top of d’Artagnan’s words. “Partner,” Athos repeats. 

“D’Artagnan,” Guy says, beaming, taking the offered hand in both of his. “So happy to meet you.”

“Likewise,” d’Artagnan answers, and he can’t keep the grin off his face any more than he can keep the butterflies from zooming around his stomach. Athos had introduced him to Thalia at the museum as _partner_ as well, but this feels different. This is blood.  

“Sit down, sit down. Coffee? Something stronger?” Guy drops into the high-backed chair behind his desk, all long-limbed grace. 

“Nothing for me,” Athos says. “No, we’re fine,” he confirms at d’Artagnan’s nod. 

“Straight down to business, then?” Guy sits forward, propping his elbows on the desktop. “Athos gave me a little of the background, but why don’t you tell me in your own words what the problem is?”

“Ah. I suppose the simplest explanation is that Athos thinks my tenants are cheating me. When I accepted their offer I’d just gotten out of the army, I’d been in since I was eighteen, and my father had just died.” He glances at Athos, who is nodding slowly, but looking at Guy, not at d’Artagnan himself.  “So,” he says, “I guess I did just take the first offer that sounded like it would solve my problem. I didn’t know how to manage the farm, I didn’t want to manage the farm, but it’s. I’m the last d’Artagnan. I couldn’t sell it.”

Guy smiles at him. “Of course you couldn’t,” he says sympathetically, “nor should you have to.” Guy picks up a pen and spins it between his fingers. “Land in that part of the country isn’t likely to lose value, so keeping the property is a sound decision.  Are the house and buildings in good repair?” 

“Yes, very. At least, they were when I went down to check on things in late summer. They really were keeping the place up well.”

“They have incentive to,” Athos says dryly. “I wouldn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my getting away with robbery, either.”

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. “You don’t know it wasn’t just honest ignorance on their part, either. I should’ve done research, I should’ve known, but maybe they didn’t either.”

Guy glances back and forth between them. “Let’s say that your tenants truly thought they were offering you a fair price. Do you think that you should continue to lose money on this property, just to give them the benefit of doubt?” 

That, d’Artagnan has to admit, makes sense, and he shakes his head. “No. No, you’re right.”

They spend the next hour talking details – the first year of the lease is up on March 31, which is a natural time to renegotiate, Guy says. “And if they don’t want to keep it, there are good farmers who will deal with you fairly. I don’t know if Athos told you, we do invest in some small farms. _Agneaux de pré-salés_ , mostly. _Baie de Somme_ AOC.”

“So how does that work?” d’Artagnan asks. “No offense, but I don’t see you tramping around the sheep pens.” 

Guy laughs. “You’d be surprised. Our grandfather retired to Saint-Valéry, and he kept a small flock. Wore wellies and a beret and everything.” 

“He was utterly mad,” Athos says. “He would leave all the doors open and let the sheep wander through the house.”

“There was the black one with the ribbons…” 

“ _Claudette_ ,” Athos says, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth is turning up. “He kept ribbons tied around her ears like on a girl’s pigtails. And he was always asking her for her opinions.” 

Guy is laughing even harder, wiping at his eyes as his shoulders shake. “My god, he really did. I forgot that.” 

“Do you think it will rain today, Claudette?” Athos says in a deep, aristocratic voice. “Perhaps we should plant cabbages this year, Claudette.” 

“She had a- a- a special pen in the shed,” Guy gasps, trying and failing to pull himself together. 

“And he’d make us shovel sheep shit and change the straw every day,” Athos says, “and herd the rotten beasts out to the flats and back. I _hated_ visiting.” 

“All of us did.” Guy pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and swipes at his face. “Except for Paul, the little suck-up.” 

“We’re not talking about Paul,” Athos says darkly. 

“No. No, we’re talking about. What were we talking about?”

D’Artagnan has been taking it in, Athos teasing and joking – it reminds him of how Athos was with Cécile, only with less of the tension, without that feeling that there were unsaid things buried like mines in the road. He loves this, he thinks, he loves seeing Athos like this. Maybe he’s not laughing as hard as Guy, but he’s enjoying himself. 

He reaches over and threads his fingers with Athos’. “We were talking about your farming qualifications,” d’Artagnan says with a grin. “And I’m still not convinced.” 

“Rightly so,” Athos says, giving d’Artagnan’s hand a squeeze. “Do you still have, what was his name?” 

“Gilbert. Yes. François Gilbert, he’s our agricultural development manager. He grew up on a dairy in the Moselle, got a business degree and then went back to farming. He’s the one who identifies investment farms for us, interviews prospective tenants and managers… He’s not based here in Paris but I could get him in for a meeting if you wanted to speak with him.” 

D’Artagnan nods. “I might. I’ll, I’ll let you know. Could you… I don’t know, could you put together a proposal? What a fair lease _should_ look like, what the profits should look like, what you think we, I, should offer for terms? So that I can review it as a whole?” 

“Absolutely,” Guy says, nodding back. “We can have that for you by the end of the week.” 

“That would be great, thank you.” 

Athos lets go of d’Artagnan’s hand, and stands up, brushing at the front of his jacket. “Thank you, Guy,” he says. “Thanks for working us in, I know you’re busy.” 

Guy comes around the desk, pulling Athos into another tight embrace. “Please, it’s just so good to see you. If I can help your partner out, so much the better.” 

“Thank you,” Athos repeats, clapping Guy on the back. “Please say hello to your mother for me.”

“Of course.” Guy steps out of the hug, and offers his hand to d’Artagnan. “Welcome to the family, eh?”

He thinks he said something in reply, he knows he let Guy pull him into a hug of his own, he knows Athos took him by the hand and led him out of the building, down the street. But it’s not till they’re on the Métro, headed back toward the flat, that d’Artagnan’s ears stop ringing with those words. 

 

Most of d’Artagnan’s wardrobe has already migrated to Athos’ flat – when they get to his place on Saturday morning, there’s even less to pack up than he’d expected. The suit he likes least and only wears when everything else is dirty. Some gym clothes. His dress uniform, pristine from its last cleaning, hanging in its garment bag.

“I should get rid of this,” he says, unzipping the bag and running his fingertips over the ribbons pinned to the breast. 

“Why?” Athos says, looking up from where he’s stuffing mismatched socks into a duffle. “You’re proud of your service. You left honorably. Why not keep it?”

“Do you still have yours?” 

“Yes. It’s in mothballs at the house in La Fère, but I still have it.” 

D’Artagnan flicks one of the shiny buttons, then shakes his head, and rezips the bag. “I’ll take it, and think about it.”

“All right,” Athos murmurs. “Linens?” 

“Cheap and awful. Bin.” 

“I’ve spoiled you.” 

“Terribly.” D’Artagnan grins. “But they’re not worth donating, really.”

Together they strip the bed, empty out the bathroom, fill up a couple of bags with miscellaneous trash. Athos opens the refrigerator and gives d’Artagnan an absolutely vile look. 

“You had the nerve to criticize the contents of my refrigerator?” he says. “There’s nothing in here except mayonnaise and beer.”

“I haven’t actually bought groceries for this place since… I actually don’t know. Before Christmas, at least.” D’Artagnan shrugs, sorting through the papers on the kitchen table. 

Athos lets the door swing closed. The beer bottles rattle. 

“I am going to pay Lina an extravagant amount of money to come down here and clean before you turn in your key,” he says after a moment, tapping his fingertips on the edge of the table. “Don’t argue.” 

“Fine,” d’Artagnan says. He stuffs most of the papers into his bag, and starts flipping through the accumulated mail. “I don’t think there’s anything else, then.” 

“Spoiled,” Athos repeats in a murmur, arms sliding around d’Artagnan’s waist. He rests his forehead on the back of d’Artagnan’s shoulder, and d’Artagnan snuggles back into his embrace.

“Grateful,” d’Artagnan says this time. He covers Athos’ hands with one of his. “I love you.”

“And you,” Athos says with a sigh. “Are you ready to go?”

“Just a moment.” 

There’s an odd envelope in with the rest of the bills and junk, a heavy, expensive paper with the name of a law firm in the corner.

“What’s that?” Athos asks, his breath warm against d’Artagnan’s ear.

“I have no idea,” he answers, tearing the flap with his thumb and pulling out two sheets of paper. One is the same creamy stock as the envelope; the other is plain lined notebook paper. He unfolds the first, with hope that is provides some explanation for the second.

He is not disappointed.

“M. Charles d’Artagnan,” Athos reads in a mutter over his shoulder, “We represent Ms. Anne de Breuil—Jesus fucking Christ.”

Athos breaks away, stalking over to the window while d’Artagnan reads. He wants to hold his nose, like a child swallowing medicine, as he scans the words.

— _remains held at Fresnes—_

— _that this communication be forwarded—_

_—nothing but regret for—_

He looks up; Athos is facing out over the rooftops, his back ramrod straight, hands braced on the sill. D’Artagnan looks back to the papers in his hands and unfolds the second sheet.

 _Cher d’Artagnan—_ it begins, and he almost crumples it up right then. It’s only the sight of two words, leaping out from the page as if they’d been shouted at him, that makes him read on; first quickly, then a second time slowly, while he feels himself grow cold.

 _—your father—_ it said, halfway down the page. _I have information about the death of your father._

“Whatever she’s offering you,” Athos says in a low, awful voice, “remember. She lies like she breathes.”

Athos is still facing away, his jaw set hard, and d’Artagnan wants to go to him, to take those few steps and put his arms around Athos the same way Athos had done with him just a little while ago. He feels frozen, though, turned to stone in this spot on the faded yellow lino.

“She says she knows something about my father.” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard.

“How would she know anything about that?” Athos says, turning, finally, his face pale with fury. “She is a _liar_ ,” he shouts, and swings his fist into the wall.

There is a terrible, terrible sound, and Athos goes even whiter, swaying on his feet.

“Shit,” he says, looking down at his hand. D’Artagnan catches him just before he falls.

 

Athos’ hand has swollen to twice its size by the time d’Artagnan can convince him to get in the car and go to Emergency. Once he does, Athos insists on going to the Hôpital Saint-Antoine near his flat; it takes almost forty minutes with traffic. At least at the hospital, d’Artagnan sighs as Athos is hustled into a cubicle, there isn’t a wait.

“Who are you?” the nurse asks d’Artagnan, with a narrow look that says that if he doesn’t have the right answer, she’s quite capable of seeing him out.

“My partner,” Athos says through his teeth. “He stays.”

“Mm. Would you like something for the pain?”

“I’m fine,” Athos grits.

“You’re not fine, you passed out from the–“

“I did not. I was dizzy, that’s–“

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“ _No._ ” Athos glares at both d’Artagnan and the nurse. “I punched a wall. I am stupid, but I assure you that I have been keenly aware of my state of consciousness this whole time.”

“You _are_ stupid,” d’Artagnan can’t help saying. He takes Athos’ left hand and kisses the unbroken fingers.

“Mm,” the nurse says. “I’ll get you some ice.”

The x-rays reveal that Athos has broken two bones in the back of his hand. The doctor who sets them is a plump older woman who makes it plain that Athos isn’t to do anything at all with his right hand once he leaves the hospital, and that if he does, he’ll regret it.

“That’s simply not possible,” Athos tells her with a morphine-softened glare. “I have duties.”

“You have rest,” Dr. Tagawa answers. “You need new x-rays in a few days to make sure the bones haven’t reangulated, and you will follow up with an orthopedic surgeon who will tell you if you need surgery to put in screws. If you try to use your hand, you will almost certainly need surgery. It is your choice, of course.“

“You have like, three months of vacation time,” d’Artagnan says, giving Athos’ good hand a gentle squeeze. It’s a guess, but the face Athos makes confirms that he’s not far off.

“It’s a matter of principle,” he mutters.

“Principles don’t heal bones, M. de la Fère,” the doctor says. “Let your partner help you. That’s why we have them.”

Athos sighs, but with his left hand he squeezes d’Artagnan’s fingers back.

 

At the flat – at _home_ – Athos allows himself to be put to bed with one of the painkillers he’d been given at his release; he reads for only a few minutes before falling fast asleep. D’Artagnan makes some necessary calls, telling Souza, Clèment, and Porthos the story that he and Athos had agreed on – Athos was working on his bike; it fell over and smashed his hand. Never mind the fact that the Ducati isn’t exactly the kind of motorcycle you tinker with on a Saturday afternoon, and that every one of them knows it. 

Souza skips straight past the lie, and d’Artagnan can all too clearly see him stroking that pointy beard of his when he says, “I understand that you changed your address with HR yesterday.” 

“Yes. Yes, sir,” he answers, pinching the bridge of his nose. Athos had told him to, and he hadn’t thought that anyone would notice. He hadn’t thought that Souza notices _everything._

“Similarly,” Souza goes on, “Athos changed his personal information this week as well. Which is the only reason, d’Artagnan, that I’m accepting this call, on a medical matter concerning him, from you. Do you understand?”  

He’s not sure what he’s feeling. Like he’s on fire, but also freezing, all at the same time; he’s unsure if he should be worried for his job, or terrified that a simple piece of paperwork has just outed them, has confirmed all the rumors. “I believe I do, sir, I… Are we in trouble?” 

“Your relationship hasn’t interfered with your work all these months,” Souza says simply. “I have no reason to believe that will change now that you are living together. No, what I want you to understand is that this company takes privacy very seriously, not just for our clients, but for our staff. I need to know what is necessary to know to keep my agents safe. No one else has any right to that information.” 

It’s relief, then, that floods through his body, and he sags back against the kitchen wall. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” 

“Mm,” Souza says, and now d’Artagnan can picture the devilish twinkle in the man’s eye. “Please tell Athos to get well soon. Du Vallon’s going to inherit his paperwork while he’s gone.” 

His head still spinning, d’Artagnan throws together something for a late lunch and wakes Athos to get him to eat. Athos isn’t very hungry, so d’Artagnan puts the half-finished plate aside; he stretches out in bed at Athos’ side and feels Athos’ arm come down around him, pulling him close. He’s always lain to Athos’ left, ever since their first night together. He doesn’t remember them ever discussing that, for everything else that they’d negotiated so explicitly. D’Artagnan had taken the right side of the bed, and Athos the left. That was it.

They talk in low voices till Athos falls asleep again, about rescheduling work, about d’Artagnan’s conversation with Souza, about having to go back to get the things they left behind in his old flat. He’ll have to move the car off the street, Athos tells him. He’ll need to learn the garage code.

It can wait, d’Artagnan tells him. I’ll take care of it.

They don’t talk about Anne, or the letter.

 

Three days after what they’re apparently calling _the accident_ , Athos, full of a heady cocktail of boredom and painkillers, leaves d’Artagnan a voicemail announcing his intention to drive himself to his specialist’s appointment. By the time Athos arrives at the clinic, after using his splinted right hand to shift gears through an hour’s worth of heavy city traffic, one of the two broken bones is pushing up through the skin. When both d’Artagnan and the surgeon shout at him for not just taking the damned Métro, Athos’ only defense is that he didn’t think he had the right change.

He has surgery the next morning, and spends most of the following 24 hours asleep; the 24 after that completely stoned; and the 48 after that being the most cranky, petulant brat that d’Artagnan has ever encountered.

The fifth day after the surgery is a Monday, and Lina meets d’Artagnan in the hall when he gets home. She’s buttoning up her coat, her bag at her feet.

“What happened?” he sighs, and she shakes her head.

“You tell _him_ ,” she says with a poisonous look at the door behind her, “I will quit. I don’t care how much money he offers, I will quit if he keeps on like this.”

It takes almost ten minutes to calm her down; when d’Artagnan finally goes inside, the flat is quiet and dark. In the kitchen there is a strong smell of alcohol and a badly mopped-up spill on the tile; he turns on the lights and tiny shards of green glass sparkle in the sticky red stain. He sighs, and flips the lights off again. It can wait.

Athos is lying on his back in bed, his left forearm over his face, his injured hand cradled to his chest. He’s wearing the same pajama bottoms and t-shirt he’s had on for three days.

“Lina said she’d rather go back to Bosnia than set foot in this flat again,” d’Artagnan says, unknotting his tie and unbuttoning his cuffs.

“Fine,” Athos says.

“You know you can’t mix wine and Tramadol.”

“I wasn’t _going_ to,” Athos says, lifting his arm for a moment before apparently changing his mind.

D’Artagnan finishes unbuttoning his shirt, and slides it off his shoulders. He unbuckles his belt and takes off his trousers as well, dropping the lot on the couch. “Ah. You mean you haven’t taken anything for the pain since the morning,” he surmises, rounding the bed to pull on the tracksuit bottoms he’d left out. He scrubs his fingers through his hair.

“Mngh,” Athos grunts.

He considers picking the fight that Athos seems to want, but he’s too tired, and he shakes his head. “You need to get up. You need a bath, and your beard looks like birds have been nesting in it.”

“I can’t fix it left-handed.”

“I can help you.”

“I don’t need help, I’m not a child.”

“Then stop _acting_ like one!” d’Artagnan shouts, his frayed nerves snapping. He throws his hands in the air. “I’m sorry you’re in pain, all right, I’m sorry you’re miserable, and I know it’s my fault, but I can’t undo it, and you acting like, like _this_ doesn’t help either of us, all right? I’m _trying._ ”

Athos struggles to sit up, forgets his hand and puts it down for leverage only to snatch it back up again with a gasp. “Christ,” he chokes. “Fuck, goddamn shit _fuck._ ”

“Are you—“ d’Artagnan can’t help asking, and Athos cuts him off.

“No, I am not all right. Please. Just.”

They stare at each other, and d’Artagnan feels sick. He folds his arms over his stomach.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks finally. “Do you want me to… leave?”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Athos says, ignoring the question. He shifts himself to the side of the bed. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

I’m going to, d’Artagnan thinks, and he thinks of the letter he’s been carrying for over a week now.

It doesn’t admit any guilt for any of her crimes; it doesn’t mention the fact that she fucking _shot_ him. Instead it says that d’Artagnan was never supposed to be involved in "this mess between Athos and I," and that she's incredibly sorry for it. It says she knows it won't help make up for all he's lost, but she has information about the death of his father, and if he would be willing meet her at Fresnes, her attorneys will help fast-track his visitor’s application. That she’s looking forward to seeing him again.

“I’m the one who can’t… control myself, where. She. Is concerned,” Athos is saying, rubbing at his face with his good hand. “And she’s the one who fucking started it.”

“I’m going to see her,” he says. He lets his arms fall to his sides.

Athos looks up at him, his face drawn with pain and exhaustion. “I thought you might already have.”

“I wouldn’t do it without telling you.” D’Artagnan shrugs. “But. I have to find out what she knows."

Athos scowls. "She doesn't know anything. She's playing you for some reason, because that's what she _does_.”

"Why did she single me out last summer, to get at you?” d’Artagnan asks. “Why me? We never talked about it, you and me, afterward, we just... let it go."

"There was nothing to discuss,” Athos says wearily. “She picked you because you looked like an easy mark, that's all."

D’Artagnan sets his jaw. "And you think I'm still an easy mark."

“No,” Athos says. “No. I think that woman doesn't get out of bed in the morning without an ulterior motive, and I would prefer it if no one else I love falls to that."

It’s awful. It’s awful hearing Athos say that word in such a sad, angry way, and d’Artagnan drops down beside him, taking his good hand and leaning into Athos’ side. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not doing it to hurt you. Don’t you see that I have to? Even if it comes to nothing? It’s been a year. It’s been this miserable year of feeling helpless and useless and I _have_ to.”

Athos shakes his head, but he slumps against d’Artagnan with a sigh. “Please be careful,” he says softly. “Please.”

 

It’s supposed to take at least a month to get a prison visitor’s pass, but Anne’s attorneys somehow get his application pushed through in just over a week. He wonders why, if they’re able to circumvent the system so handily, is she still sitting in the  _maison d’arrêt_ at Fresnes? He’s not even sure he’s supposed to be able to see her at all, since one of the charges against her is his own shooting. The attorneys refuse to tell him anything, just smile their bland, expensive smiles and say the details of their communication with their client are confidential, that they are unaware of the specifics of whatever Ms. de Breuil has to say to him.

On the day he takes the car at Athos’ insistence, despite the attorneys’ offer to send him via their own service; Athos rightly points out that d’Artagnan should have his own transportation, that this way, he can leave whenever he wants instead of being left dependent. 

 _Be careful_ , he whispers again, kissing d’Artagnan at the door. D’Artagnan puts his hand on Athos’ cheek and tells him he’ll be back in a few hours. 

 

The main building at Fresnes looks like a immense industrial age factory, except it’s surrounded by a high stone wall, periodically interrupted by white watchtowers. He leaves his phone and his wallet locked in the glove box, and carries only his ID, his visitor’s pass, and the car keys. At the first metal detector he forgets the keys in his pocket and has to submit to an aggressive pat-down; the visitor behind him, a brittle-looking white woman who appears about forty-five, but is likely closer to thirty, rolls her eyes and mutters that if she misses another week because some idiot held up the line, she’s going to fuck someone up. The guard hears too, and she’s pulled aside for a search after d’Artagnan is waved forward. 

He can’t remember ever experiencing a process as demoralizing, or a place more depressing. There are multiple stops as the visitors are shuffled through gates and vestibules, down dank stairs and through corridors with fizzing lights. There is mold on the walls. The smell of piss and sweaty bodies and rot comes and goes. At every stop, he’s searched, or questioned, or both. It’s on the tip of his tongue to protest, but he bites it back. 

This is for his father. 

The  _parloir,_ when at last he’s led inside,is little more than a cupboard; a claustrophobic recess with a pair of stools set on either side of a flimsy hip-high wall. Guards pace the alley behind the inmates’ side, bringing people to their visitors, taking them away again, making their presence obvious and inescapable: there is no privacy here. The noise is constant, slamming doors, babel from the other _parloirs,_ shouting and weeping and laughing. D’Artagnan perches on the very edge of the stool, and watches a fat roach skitter up the back wall, then disappear in a crack in the masonry.

Anne still manages to be pretty, even in the midst of all this, even in a drab prison uniform with no makeup and her hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She beams at him when she’s led up to the partition, leans across for an awkward, shackled hug that makes d’Artagnan go cold all over. He doesn’t move, doesn’t greet her, doesn’t acknowledge it when the guard taps his baton on the doorframe and orders her to move back.

She lets go of the front of his jacket, and sits.

“We’re not friends,” d’Artagnan says carefully. “And this isn’t a social call. Don’t touch me again.”  

Anne pouts, eyes bright and shrewd as ever. “But we were so much more than friends, once.” 

 _“Once_ , we fucked for a night.” He crosses his arms. “Tell me what you have to tell me, Anne. They gave me 45 minutes but I’d rather not spend that much time with you.” 

She stares at him, as if daring him to look away first. He refuses. This is for his father, he thinks again. This is for closure, for justice, and if she can’t actually offer those things, he will walk away — but he will not give her the satisfaction of thinking she’s cowed him. Never. 

Finally Anne blinks, and folds her hands in her lap. The shackles jingle.  

“The investigation into your father’s death has been stalled almost since the day it began,” she says blandly. “There was just that one clue. How did that piece of Athos' business card get in your father's pocket?” 

He breathes in slowly through his nose; the reek of the  _parloir_ a small price to pay for not actually gasping. He feels that chill again, and shakes his head. “How could you know that?” he asks softly. 

“The police just accepted his alibi,” she goes on. “Must be nice, no? To have that kind of power.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “And that made you furious, didn’t it? I know that’s why you went to Paris, after the Orleans police let him go. Were you planning to kill him? Or just confront him?"

 _That’s enough_ , Athos orders in his memory. _Don’t make me kill you over a mistake._

“Are you really,” d’Artagnan asks, bundling his anger away into the pocket in his mind, the place that Athos taught him to find. “Really trying to tell me that Athos was responsible?” 

She smiles, almost fondly. “No. No, but someone wanted very much for you to believe that he was."

“Who?” 

Anne sits back slightly, her smile growing wider. "I need a favor."

D’Artagnan can’t help the laugh that cuts its way out of his mouth, leaving a metallic taste on his tongue. "This is all a game to you, isn't it?"

She darts forward, standing and leaning over the partition, face so close to d’Artagnan’s that he can feel her breath on his lips. “I have been in this hellhole for nearly nine months,” she hisses. “If you think I’m playing, you’re welcome to trade places and see what kind of fucking game it is.” 

“Back up,” the guard bellows, lifting his baton. “And sit the fuck down. I said, sit the fuck down,” he repeats when she doesn’t move. “I’m not asking again.” 

For a moment d’Artagnan thinks she’s going refuse, he thinks he’s going to see that piece of black steel come down on her back and as much as he despises her, he’s not sure he can just stand and watch if it happens. She moves away slowly, slow enough that the guard takes another heavy step forward, but she sits at last. D’Artagnan allows himself a long exhale. 

“I need a favor,” Anne says again, all pretense of disinterest gone from her voice. Down to business at last. “And much as it revolts me to ask it of _you_ , you’re the only one who can help.” 

“Then spit it out,” he says, crossing his arms, “because you’re wasting your time as well as mine.” 

“You’re the next of kin of a murder victim, and I have information about that murder,” she says bluntly. “You can petition for my testimony to be included in the investigation.” 

D’Artagnan swallows. “And why would you do that?” 

“Because that information is bigger than just your poor, dead Papa.” Anne’s mouth twists. “And I want a deal. I want out of this fucking place, but the courts are taking their time and refusing to listen to me.” 

“Maybe the courts know how full of shit you are.” 

Her eyes narrow. “They shot him in the back of the head, d’Artagnan. While he begged for his life. While he said _take anything you want, please, please, please_.” She cocks her finger at him, and mouths,  _Pow._

“You really are as sick as Athos said,” he says, just barely, barely keeping his voice level. He digs his fingertips into his thigh. 

“And how is Athos?” she purrs, leaning forward again, just far enough that the guard does nothing but glare. 

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan says.  "Well, I presume."

"Oh, haven't you seen him today?” Anne cocks her head. "You smell like you _bathed_ in his cheap shaving soap, you must've recently been... close."

D’Artagnan’s cheeks heat; yes, they’d been close that morning, had woken up beside each other like they’ve done every day for weeks. And yes, he’d borrowed Athos’ shaving soap, also like he’d been doing for weeks, ever since he ran out and couldn’t be bothered to go to the chemist’s for more. The most they’d done before he left was kiss at the door, but her insinuation still makes him feel caught out and wrong-footed.

“Athos,” he says sharply,  "isn't any of your business anymore."

"Athos will _always_ be my business,” Anne fires back. 

"He doesn't want you, and he doesn’t need you,” d’Artagnan says, his fury uncoiling from the safe place he’d hidden it.  “And he never did."

Anne laughs. “Oh, you have no idea what that man needs."

The stool falls to the cement floor with a loud crack when he stands. “No. I came here for an answer that you obviously don't have. There’s no favor, and there’s no deal. Don't contact us again."

He can't read the look on her face as anything but panic. She shakes her head. “You don’t understand,” she begins, placating, but d’Artagnan just stares. 

“I understand perfectly well,” he says, putting his clenched fists in his pockets. “Goodbye, Anne.” 

Whatever she shouts after him is lost in the din of the prison. 

 

Athos is waiting when d’Artagnan gets home, and doing a terrible job of pretending not to be worried; he practically leaps up from the sofa when d’Artagnan walks in. 

“You’re okay?” he says in lieu of greeting, his good hand going to d’Artagnan’s cheek. D’Artagnan closes his eyes, leaning into the warmth of Athos’ palm, and then turning to press a kiss to his fingers. 

“I’m fine. I’m fine, really,” he repeats when Athos tips his face up by the chin. He smiles. “There’s nothing to tell. She had a lot of bullshit to say, and I told her I didn’t want any of it. The end.” 

“The end,” Athos echoes, his eyes narrowing. “That simple, hm?” 

“For the moment, it’ll have to suffice. I am starving, and I am filthy.” He darts forward to leave a quick kiss on Athos’ mouth. “And I am tired. So: wash, eat, nap, before anything else, all right?” 

The first two things are easy enough to accomplish; he stands under the hot spray in the shower until the knot between his shoulder blades has loosened a little, until he’s soaped the stink of the prison off his skin and out of his hair. When he goes out into the kitchen, Athos has pointedly left a bowl of soup next to the microwave, and a ragged chunk of buttered bread. The food tastes amazing after going all day on nothing but that morning’s coffee; he makes short work of it, dumps his dishes in the sink and heads for the bedroom. 

Athos is snoring into the pillows, curled in on himself with his broken hand held to his chest, and d’Artagnan feels a heavy thump in his chest, a thick, choking wave of love rising up in his throat. For all that he has hurt, for all that he has lost, no one has ever deliberately hurt him in any real way — his mother’s cancer was random as a mugging, and just as sudden and impersonal. His father’s murder, whether or not Anne’s hints and innuendoes hold any meaning at all, wasn’t about _him_. No one has ever struck at him the way that she has done to Athos. 

It’s not a matter of whose pain is greater, he thinks, lying down and pressing up behind Athos, dropping soft kisses on Athos’ nape. It’s not a matter of who’s lost more. D’Artagnan closes his eyes and shifts closer, feeling Athos breathe under his cheek. Someone needs to stand between her and Athos, he thinks. Even if it means letting go of his own questions. 

He thinks his father would understand. 

Sleep still eludes him, though, no matter how hard he tries to give in to it. His limbs ache with exhaustion like he’s been on a 40K march, not a day of merely driving, sitting and standing; the tension refuses to bleed away into rest. He eases away from Athos and takes another shower, tries to clear his head with steam. It works for a little while, but when he lies back down the meeting with Anne springs back to life behind his eyes. 

“Take one of my Tramadol,” Athos says after a while, his voice low and tired. “Maybe that’ll stop you twitching.” 

“I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says, wincing. He sits up, scrubs his palms over his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you—"

“No, my hand woke me,” Athos says, shifting onto his back, hitching himself up to lean back on the headboard. “I broke my arm when I was a child, I don’t remember it hurting this much, or for so long after.” 

“Because you were a child,” d’Artagnan points out. He reaches for Athos' medicine, and the bottle of water on the night table. “Things don’t work the same way at your age.” 

“At my age,” Athos huffs, but he takes the medicine. He makes a face after he swallows, and passes the water back. “Are you ready to talk about today yet?” 

“No.” D'Artagnan takes a sip of Athos’ water, considering, and then shakes his head. “No,” he repeats. “I’m ready for the, the opposite of that. I’m ready to stop fucking thinking about it, and anything else, for a while.” 

Athos’ gaze goes hot, his tongue darting out over his lip. “Would you care for some assistance in that matter?” 

D’Artagnan nearly groans aloud at the question; it feels like his insides go liquid. Yes, he thinks, that would be perfect, but it wouldn’t be fair. 

“Don’t,” Athos growls before d’Artagnan can answer, anticipating the objection. “Don’t give me any shit about being hurt, it’s just the one hand. I haven’t touched you in more than two weeks—“ 

“Your pain doesn’t turn me on,” d’Artagnan sighs, shifting up to his knees. He leans down and kisses Athos, cupping his face with his hands. 

“D’Artagnan,” Athos says against his lips. “Let me help you. I’ve been… useless, like a turtle on its back, let me  _do_ something for you.” 

“And what about you?” d’Artagnan asks gently, sitting back on his heels. “I want to, believe me, I want, I have wanted to, I have _missed…_ it doesn’t matter though. Not if you’re not—"

“You don’t understand,” Athos interrupts.  “All these months, you still don’t understand, it _is_ for me. Taking care of you makes _me_  happy, you idiot, whether that’s… fucking you or, or bringing you coffee, or whatever else. It’s all selfish, it’s.” Athos stops, shoulders dropping, and he shakes his head. “Making you feel good, making you happy. That’s when I feel... like the best version of myself.” 

I don’t deserve you, d’Artagnan thinks, leaning in to kiss Athos again, letting it get hotter this time, letting Athos get a tight grip in his hair and take over. Even that little bit of dominance makes d’Artagnan’s brain react, instinctively starting to fold itself up to be put away. He sighs into the kiss. 

“Yes,” he whispers when Athos pauses for breath. “Yes, all right, green.” 

Athos has d’Artagnan get a cock ring, tells him the choice is his. He goes for steel rather than the silicone; it’s less forgiving, but he wants that little bite of pain. Athos can’t be as rough as d’Artagnan would like tonight, but the steel feels good. It’s a rare treat as it is. 

Ring in place, d’Artagnan’s cock starting to deliciously throb, Athos sits on the edge of the bed and puts d’Artagnan on his knees, on the floor. He fucks d’Artagnan’s mouth like that, using his good hand in d’Artagnan’s hair for leverage. He keeps pulling back just when d’Artagnan thinks he’s going to come, and before long he’s sobbing for it, begging Athos to come in his mouth. 

“No,” Athos refuses, his voice sweet and warm. “You’re getting my cock ready for your ass, that’s all.” 

Still it seems like forever before Athos allows d’Artagnan back onto the bed, before d'Artagnan is allowed to kneel astride Athos’ hips and work himself open. Athos stops him every few moments to check his work, pressing his fingers into d’Artagnan’s hole to curl and twist before ordering d’Artagnan to open himself more. It’s only when Athos can push all four fingers in with ease that he lets d’Artagnan settle himself on Athos’ cock.

“Fuck yourself,” Athos purrs in d’Artagnan’s ear. “I know you can come with the ring on, fuck yourself until you come.” 

“Touch me?” d’Artagnan moans, and Athos refuses again; he wipes his good hand on the sheets and takes back his grip in d’Artagnan’s hair. 

“Fuck. Yourself,” Athos repeats. “I’m not going to say it again.” 

It wouldn’t be d’Artagnan’s choice to go another two and a half weeks without, not anytime soon, but later he will think about how it felt, how Athos’ cock inside him was almost like the first time over again. Hot and bare and so thick, filling him so perfectly. Later he will think about how much he loves the wanting, how much better it feels when he’s had to work for it. 

He braces one hand on the headboard over Athos’ shoulder, the other on Athos’ chest, and rocks back hard onto Athos’ cock. Athos groans loudly, snapping his hips up into d’Artagnan’s next movement before catching himself. He twists d’Artagnan’s hair, pulling d’Artagnan’s mouth down for a bruising kiss. 

All of d’Artagnan’s nerves are singing, it won’t take much longer, even with the ring holding him back. He works his body up and down, letting himself go, letting himself be rough and sloppy, giving in to the aching pleasure. His thighs are shaking with the effort, his balls are tight and heavy, sweat is burning his eyes; he’s so close he wants to scream. Maybe he does, a little. Maybe he does scream and sob nonsense to Athos, begging _please, please, please_ even though he’s already gotten permission. 

“Please,” he says, and Athos gives him another biting kiss. 

“Now,” Athos orders, and d’Artagnan falls apart. 

He whines a little while Athos shifts him off his lap, off his cock, maneuvering d’Artagnan over onto his back. He stretches and paws at Athos’ chest, feeling vaguely like he should be warning Athos to be careful of his hand, but no words come. 

“Shh,” Athos soothes, removing the ring as gently as he can with his left hand. “Easy, all right. Now onto your side.” 

Once d’Artagnan realizes what Athos wants it’s easy to comply; he moves a pillow to support his hip, bending one knee. Athos fits back inside him with a single slow shove, and they both shudder and sigh. What had been almost frantic settles into a easy, lazy fuck, the weight of Athos’ cast resting on his flank, Athos fingertips just brushing the skin. 

“I hate it,” Athos whispers, pressing his forehead to d’Artagnan’s neck. “I hate knowing that she had you first.” 

It’s a struggle to understand what Athos means, the words filtering down through the remains of his headspace, through his post-orgasm haze; after it finally sinks in, d’Artagnan tips his head back onto Athos’ shoulder. 

“Not true,” he says. “Not the same. You. You’re the only one who ever had me.” 

He’s not sure that he’s made sense, if he’s managed to articulate the crucial difference between that single night’s sex and what Athos is to him, what Athos gives to him. Athos is quiet, still fucking d’Artagnan with slow rolls of his hips; a few minutes later, he comes with a soft noise, his body shaking against d’Artagnan’s. 

His eyelids are growing heavier now; he grumbles a little when Athos separates them, but settles back into Athos’ arms. “I love you,” d’Artagnan says after a moment. His head feels too large for his neck. He thinks he should explain further, he should make sure Athos understands. 

“I love you,” he says again, “so it doesn’t matter. Mm, who. Whoever touched me before you did. Because. You’re it. You’re the last one. Because I love you.” 

He feels Athos’ beard, Athos’ breath on the side of his neck; it feels like Athos is nodding. D’Artagnan smiles sleepily. 

“You understand?” 

Athos’ lips press to the line of his jaw, his arms tighten around d’Artagnan’s body. “Yes,” he says. “I understand.” 

 

Athos lets him go the rest of the evening, through a long nap followed by a long bath, through late night omelettes and inconsequential chatter. D'Artagnan knows better than to think the subject is closed — he's going to have to talk about it, and he's going to have to explain. Worse, maybe, is the fact that he's going to have to explain _why_. 

It's when they're back in bed, Athos sitting up reading with eyes slightly unfocused by pain medication, that d'Artagnan cracks. 

"You're really not going to ask?" he says, sitting near Athos' feet and fiddling with his phone. He's got nothing but some gym time and some detail review with Porthos the next day; they're not set to meet until late morning. His email inbox is distressingly empty of items requiring his immediate attention. 

"Really," Athos says, glancing at d'Artagnan over the top of his book. "You said you needed time, I'm giving it. Would you prefer that I push and pry?"

"No." He spins his phone between his fingers. "But I don't like keeping things from you."

This time Athos' look is sharper. " _Are_ you keeping something from me?" He puts his book down, open, on his leg. 

D'Artagnan sighs. "A bit? Look, it's not. You didn't want me to go. I didn't want you to be right. She wound me up and she liked it, and you were right."

"There's more."

He nods, looking at his lap. "She wanted me to help her get some kind of deal. She wanted me to ask the court to get her testimony included in my father’s case so she could trade whatever she supposedly knew. She seemed to really think whatever it was, it was big enough to get her out."

Athos tilts his head. "To get her out?" 

“That’s what she said.” D’Artagnan shrugs, twisting his mouth as he recalls the conversation. “In between taunting me about you, and the murder, that is.” 

“About me?” Athos says, frowning. “How so?"

“The Savon du Midi gave it away — apparently, I smell like you. She made a guess; it happened to be the right one.” He shrugs again, unlocking his phone screen with his thumb, and then turning it off again. “I got angry, and told her she could stuff her deal. She just wanted to fuck with me, okay? You were right.” 

“No,” Athos says, rubbing his face. “No, I’m. Shit. Half-stoned on these fucking pills.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes a moment before letting go to look back up at d’Artagnan. “Anne is not a stupid woman. I… despise her, with every bit of my soul, but she’s not stupid. If she actually asked you to go to the court, that’s not just, that’s not just fucking with you. The fucking with you is certainly a fringe benefit, but she must actually know something or she wouldn’t gamble on you. Not when it comes to her freedom.” 

It’s d’Artagnan’s turn to rub his eyes. “I don’t follow.” 

“There’s only one reason you went today, right? You still want to know what happened to your father, and why.” Athos snaps his book closed and moves it from his lap to the night table, leaning forward. “But after everything last summer, you don’t have any reason to trust her, if you ever did. I didn’t… I was too angry before, I didn’t think of it like that. She had to feel like what she had to offer _you_ was enough to get you to play along in spite of all the reasons you have to refuse. And she had to feel like what she had to offer the court was enough to take the chance that you might refuse anyway. Which you did, and—"

“Are you seriously suggesting that I should’ve agreed?” Anger flashes hot up d’Artagnan’s spine. “You, of all people?"

“I’m suggesting that you should think about it some more.” Athos reaches out with his casted right hand, hooking the two free fingers around d’Artagnan’s. 

“She didn’t even have to say that much,” he says, looking down at their hands, his darker fingers against Athos’, the edge of the plaster around Athos’ hand frayed and grimy. “Just enough to make me… I don’t want anything more to do with her, Athos. She already tried to use me against you once. I don’t want to give her a second chance.” 

He can see Athos nodding out of the corner of his eye; when he glances up, Athos is looking at him with bright eyes. 

“The thing is,” Athos says slowly, his voice low. “I already know who killed my brother. I already know who hurt my family, my friends, I know who fucked me up. _Why_ I’ll probably never completely understand, but the point is, there isn’t any real mystery left. The… closure. I hate that word. But the closure is up to me. You don’t have that.” 

“I don’t need it.” 

“Yes, you do.” Athos awkwardly presses d’Artagnan’s hand. “You told me you did, and you were right, you _are_ right to—“ 

“I don’t,“ d’Artagnan says, “not at your expense. She knows now, she knows about this, us—"

Athos’ jaw sets. “So what? Realistically, d’Artagnan, how can her knowing about us be actually harmful _to us_? Our relationship is not a secret, we are out to our employer, to my family, you _live_  here. Knowing that we’re in a relationship is not currency of any kind, there is no way it can be used against either of us.” 

“She said I don’t know what you need,” d’Artagnan blurts out miserably, the words stinging on his tongue the same way they had stung to hear. 

To his surprise, Athos’ expression softens into a smile. “That’s Anne 101. Whatever you’re afraid of, she’ll swear to you it’s true.” He shakes his head. “It isn’t true. It simply isn’t.” 

D’Artagnan blows out a breath, letting go of Athos’ hand to crawl up the bed, arranging himself at Athos’ side. He pushes his face against Athos’ shoulder, and feels Athos’ good hand curl in his hair. 

“Do you want to go to sleep?” Athos murmurs. “It’s late.” 

“Yes, please,” d’Artagnan mumbles back. 

Athos rubs d’Artagnan’s head, digging his fingertips in to the base of his skull; bit by bit d’Artagnan feels the tension ebbing away. He’s on the verge of sleep when Athos speaks again.

“This,” he says softly, “is everything I need.” 

 

Athos leaves the matter alone the next day, and d'Artagnan is happy to let it lie. He sleeps late and drags himself in to his afternoon meeting; Porthos isn't too hard on him, for all that he's distracted and yawning through the whole thing. It's a relief, really, to go to the gym afterward and pound the hell out of the heavy bag, and then run till he's ready to drop. 

He passes Porthos on his way out of the locker room, and Porthos gives him a sidelong look. "You and Athos okay?" he asks, his expression suggesting that he's willing to take sides if the answer is no. "He was a bear on our conference call yesterday."  

"Sorry about that," d'Artagnan answers without thinking, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, yeah, we're fine, it's..." He pauses, trying to decide how much to explain. 

Porthos raises one eyebrow. "That's not very convincing."

D'Artagnan shakes his head with a wry smile. "Doesn't sound it, no. No, I wasn't at home yesterday, I."

Lying to Porthos, to one of his closest friends, feels impossible; d'Artagnan suddenly realizes how much that he and Athos have kept to themselves these last few months.  It wasn't an active decision to exclude the others, to keep things from them—it feels like it had just _happened,_ like time was a piece of cloth that had unraveled even though he'd tugged only one small thread. 

"I was visiting Anne," he says in a rush. "In jail."

"I know where she is," Porthos says, grim-faced. "That's why I can sleep at night. Are you forgetting that she _shot_ you? Does Athos know you went?"

"Of course Athos knows," d'Artagnan hisses, face hot with anger. "Do you think I would do something like that behind his back?"

"No." Porthos gives him a searching look. "Not unless you thought it was the right thing to do." 

"I didn't… We discussed it, it. Shit." He shakes his head again. "Listen, do you have time for a drink? I'll catch you up." 

He sends Athos a quick text that he’ll be late, and gets a simple _See you then_  in reply. They end up at the bar a few blocks from Porthos and Aramis' building, a place he and the others had frequented regularly during his first several months at the company. It’s in the opposite direction from home, but closer to work. The woman behind the bar gives d'Artagnan a once-over and a grin. 

"Haven't seen _you_ in a while," she says, shaking a drink and pouring it with expert turns of her slim brown wrists. 

"Yeah, he got married," Porthos says rudely. "Hands to yourself, Char."

D’Artagnan’s ears heat up under his cap. “Not actually,” he protests feebly, and Porthos makes a _please_ face. 

“Good as,” he says. “So who do I have to fuck to get a pint around here?” 

The look she gives Porthos is utterly withering. “Take an _entire_ _table_ of seats, Porthos. I have real customers.” She drops an olive in the martini she’d been making, and swings away to the other end of the bar. 

Porthos pats his chest. “She loves me.” 

D’Artagnan nods. “Oh, obviously.” 

They do sit, then, at a small table in the corner, and Charlotte, that was her name, Charlotte sends over a waitress with two beers a moment later. D’Artagnan is surprised that she remembered his brand; Porthos just tucks into his with a long sigh. 

“Oh, that’s good,” he says, stretching and cracking his neck. “I’ll be glad when Athos is back. All these years, I had no idea how much work he actually did outside of detail duty.” 

“He’s probably going to be another week,” d’Artagnan says with another nod and a sip of his own drink. “Pushing himself is what made the break need surgery in the first place, I’m not going to let him repeat the mistake.” 

“And he listens to you,” Porthos says. It’s not a question. 

“He does,” d’Artagnan answers, with a small amount of surprise. Yes, he’d noticed, but it was often easier to recall the instances where Athos _didn’t_ listen, _didn’t_ agree. On reflection, it’s clear that Athos supports d’Artagnan’s decisions, does what d’Artagnan suggests, most of the time. He presses his lips together. “That’s not the problem. I mean, it’s not sitting home trying to run the show one-handed from his laptop that’s put him in a mood.” 

“It’s _her_ ,” Porthos says, brows drawing together in a scowl. “So spill it.” 

D’Artagnan spills. He tells Porthos about the letter, about Athos being there when he opened the letter. He watches Porthos’ face darken when he explains that they’d lied about how Athos broke his hand because Athos didn’t want them to get involved; he explains Anne’s offer, and his own reaction to it. He picks at the label on his beer bottle as he explains that they haven’t decided what to do yet, that he feels torn between his duty and love for his father, and those same emotions for Athos. 

When he’s done, Porthos stares at him for a moment, and then rubs his chin. “Do you want to know what I think? Or did you just need somebody to listen?” he asks. 

D’Artagnan thinks about the wealth of people who would help in an instant, about Athos’ family and how relieved they had been to finally be asked back into his life. Athos’ friend Cécile, who’s lost just as much as he has. Porthos and Aramis, who were there for Athos long before he showed up. It’s hard, when you’re used to doing everything yourself, when you’re used to carrying all your own weight, willing to take on the weight of others but rarely letting anyone take yours. He and Athos have that in common, he thinks. A self-reliance that is mostly isolation, believed to be virtuous instead of seen for what it is—fear. For all his part in reopening Athos’ world, he’s been so afraid of letting anyone but Athos into his own. 

“No,” he says slowly. “I really would like to hear what you think.” 

Porthos nods, and orders another round. 

 

It’s nearing eleven when Porthos pours d’Artagnan up the stairs to the flat; he can’t manage to get his key to go in the lock, and he’s squinting at it in the dim hallway light when the door opens. Athos looks from d’Artagnan to Porthos and back again. 

“Do you need a place to sleep?” he asks. 

“I’m sleeping with you. _Obviously_ ,” d’Artagnan adds, because Athos should really know that. He presses himself to Athos’ side and shoves his face into Athos’ neck. God, he loves that smell. “I love your smell,” he says, snuffling. 

“Nah, taxi’s waiting downstairs,” Porthos says, and from the corner of his eye, d’Artagnan sees him jerk his thumb back over his shoulder. “Like I said, after a few beers I couldn’t manage to talk him out of moving on to shots. I figured it was better to keep watch and then get him home than fight him, or leave him. Sorry about that.” 

“No, it’s fine. I’m glad you called. Thank you for taking care of him.” 

Athos sounds a little sad, but he doesn’t sound angry. D’Artagnan sighs noisily, wrapping his arms around Athos’ middle. “‘M fine,” he assures. “Just a little tipsy.” 

“You were trying to open the door with your office key,” Athos says, but he rubs d’Artagnan’s back so d’Artagnan knows it’s all right. “Go on home,” Athos says. “I’ve got this.” 

“I am home,” d’Artagnan mumbles, forgetting Porthos for a moment; he looks up when Porthos gives him a thump on the shoulder. “Oh. Thanks,” he says, beaming. “Thanks.” 

Things seem to blur for a few minutes after that; he’s vaguely aware of moving, and then he’s on the bed. Everything’s tilty, and Athos is trying to get d’Artagnan’s belt open with one hand and two fingers. Eventually he succeeds, and pops the button on d’Artagnan’s trousers, pulling down the zip. 

“Mmm,” d’Artagnan says, wriggling his sweater and undershirt off over his head. He flings them away somewhere to the left. “Yes, yes. Green.” 

“Red,” Athos fires back, taking his hands away, leaving d’Artagnan lying there in just his open trousers. Now he sounds angry, now his expression has gone dark. “No. Not when you’re so drunk you can’t even get the front door open.” 

“You  _are_ mad,” d’Artagnan says, crestfallen. He struggles to sit up. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stayed out so late, I didn’t mean to—“ 

“I know, Porthos told me.” Athos sits on the edge of the bed, puts his good hand firmly in the middle of d’Artagnan’s chest and pushes him flat. “He told me what you talked about, too.” 

“Is that what made you angry?” 

“I’m not angry,” Athos sighs. “I am very tired, and we both need to sleep. We have a meeting in the morning, remember?” 

D’Artagnan vaguely recalls something about farming, which doesn’t make much sense. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry I told Porthos,” he says. “I just wanted somebody to listen.” 

That makes Athos look hurt, and d’Artagnan covers Athos’ hand on his chest with both of his own. 

“Not because you don’t,” he says, and for a moment his thoughts are perfectly clear. “You listen to me all the time. You _hear_ me. I love you. I just wanted some help. Somebody who isn’t in the middle of it.” 

Athos blinks, then leans down to kiss d’Artagnan’s mouth, slow and sweet. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs with a final kiss. D’Artagnan smiles, and complies. 

 

Athos is thoroughly unsympathetic to d'Artagnan's hangover in the morning; he doesn't lecture or say _I told you so,_ no, it's worse.  He's amused. He responds to d'Artagnan's groans about his aching head by making as much noise as possible; it seems like he runs the electric beard trimmer for an hour.  When the smell of Athos' eggs makes d'Artagnan retch, Athos only says in a bland voice that he hopes d'Artagnan isn't pregnant. 

"You're not funny," d'Artagnan grumbles, hunched like a goblin over his black coffee and dry toast. 

"I'm quite serious," Athos says, blithely continuing to eat, and d'Artagnan hates, utterly hates, Lina for having taught Athos how to use the poaching pan. "We're too young. And the expense is unbelievable."

"You're the richest man in France," D'Artagnan hisses. "And you're _forty."_

Athos puts his fork down, and wipes his mouth. "Thirty-seven, you little shit," he says without heat. "And I believe I’m about… seventh. So you aren't, are you? I would hate to be known as the man who ruined your figure."

By the time they step into Guy's office for their 9 o'clock meeting, Athos is downright chipper, and d'Artagnan has a list in his head of sixteen ways to kill him and make it look like an accident. 

"Whoa," Guy says, turning to d'Artagnan after embracing Athos in welcome. "Started the weekend early?"

D'Artagnan grimaces behind his sunglasses, giving Guy an awkward hug. "Out with a friend last night, and it went a bit far," he says, not looking at Athos. "I'm fine."

Guy, bless him, lowers the shades in his office and flips off the overhead lights, commenting that he's had plenty of mornings like this. "Sometimes," he says with a grin, "I just lock the door and pass out on the sofa."

"Don't tempt him," Athos says. "I practically needed a crane to get him out of bed." 

"Are you finished?" d'Artagnan says, gingerly pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. "It's not that I don't enjoy your company, Guy, I'd just rather be dead right now, so..."

“On to business," Guy agrees. 

The meeting to discuss d'Artagnan's farm had been pushed back twice due to Athos' injury; the delay, Guy explains, has been useful in one respect, allowing Gilbert, the agricultural consultant, to go down to Lupiac and see things for himself. Gilbert had asked around like he was interested in buying local property, and had talked at length with Marcel Gourris, d’Artagnan’s tenant. 

“He told Gilbert that the farm's owner lived in Paris, that the property wasn’t for sale, and that he had an indefinite lease.” Guy taps his fingers on his desk edge. “Whether that’s just a man trying to ward off a possible interloper, or one who really believes his position is unassailable, I’m not prepared to say. But Gourris _is_ making a huge profit on the beef cattle — he was more than happy to brag to Gilbert about how well he did this past year, and the numbers were easy to verify. So there’s no reason he can’t be paying you what the property and equipment is worth.” 

The next several minutes are spent reviewing the proposal for the new lease terms, with Guy and Athos both reassuring d’Artagnan that what may appear like strong-arm tactics is really just the normal course of business. “Gourris has four other farms that he’s working,” Guy points out. “His son and daughter-in-law are living in the house, and you’re not even getting a fair rent for that. If he’s smart, he'll accept the renegotiation and get on with his business. Or, your choice, we can just break the lease, evict them, and get somebody else in there.” Guy shrugs. “I can send people down there today, if you want. However you want to do this.” 

As much as d’Artagnan doesn’t want to make waves in his hometown, as much as he doesn’t want to make enemies, or insult his father’s old friends, the truth is, it’s not like he’s ever going to live there again. So people will probably talk. Gourris will probably hold a grudge. It’s not like d’Artagnan has to see them in the grocery store, or at mass; it’s not like their complaints can touch him at all. 

It strikes him suddenly, in a way it hadn’t previously, just what it means to have the full power of Groupe Picard and the de le Fère family at his back. 

“Get rid of him,” d’Artagnan says, sitting back in his chair. “Just. Do it however seems best, I trust you. Gilbert will find new tenants?” 

Guy nods approvingly, making notes on his papers. “Gilbert will handle the tenancy, I’ll have a couple associates pull together the documents…"

“Bill me for their time,” Athos says, and Guy looks at him over his glasses. “What?” 

“I’m not billing you, this is family business,” Guy says with a twist of his mouth. “Which reminds me, _Maman_  was happy to hear that you’ve come out of your cave, and told me to tell you that Easter is at her house this year.” 

Athos rubs his temple. “Who’s going to be there?” 

“Everyone.” Guy scribbles something. “D’Artagnan, you’ll need to stop back in to sign some things, I’ll have Martine call you.” 

“Not Paul. We're not going if Paul is there.” 

“Of course not Paul.” Guy looks up, making another face. “Since when has ‘everyone’ included Paul?” 

“Mm, point.” 

Even with his pounding head, d’Artagnan has to smile. He lets their words wash over him, dry bickering about something their cousin did the last time he was at a family gathering, and whether or not Marion would ever be successful in her attempts to legally disinherit him. Guy seems to think it’s possible. Martine appears with coffee, and d’Artagnan accepts a cup, holding its warmth to his cheek. 

“There’s just one other thing,” Athos says, taking a sip from his own cup. “While we’re getting legal advice. Unrelated to real estate, however.” 

Guy tilts his head, and waves Martine out of the room. “What’s on your mind?” 

“Do you still have that friend at the Ministry of Justice?” Athos glances at d’Artagnan. “Special prosecutor, wasn’t she?” 

“Leonie Truong. Yes, we’re still in touch. What’s this about?” 

Athos takes a deep breath, and d’Artagnan feels suddenly, horribly sober. 

 

In the taxi back home, d’Artagnan puts his head on Athos’ shoulder; Athos curls his arm around d’Artagnan’s back and kisses the top of his head. He leans into Athos’ side, and closes his eyes. 

He’s not sure why he was surprised that Athos had another plan up his sleeve. Likewise he doesn’t know why he was surprised that Guy — and Marion, apparently — knew all about what had happened last year, after all, Cécile had said as much. Athos had bluntly asked his cousin not to pretend like he wasn’t perfectly aware of it all, and Guy had shrugged. 

“You get touchy about your privacy,” Guy said. “And at the time, you still weren’t speaking to us, so.” He spread his hands. 

“I’m still touchy about my privacy,” Athos said. “But it appears that sometimes one must ask for help.” 

Guy’s friend Leonie wasn’t working on Anne’s case, but she knew about it. Everyone knew about it, she said, after stressing repeatedly that they didn’t hear this from her, and there was a lot more to it than just attempted murder. 

Anne, she explained, was not being held at the court’s pleasure just because her record made her a flight risk, but because her case had been pulled from the Ministry and folded into another, much larger investigation being handled by a  _juge d'instruction._

“This is huge,” Leonie said, her voice faintly echoing on the speakerphone in Guy’s office. “This is… right, you can’t see me waving my hands, but I am. Huge. The investigating judge has had at least two attempts on her life since taking on the case, she has round the clock police protection because the target is... huge," she repeated. "Everyone's talking about it, although officially nobody is meant to know about it. This… there’s a woman who does dirty work for the target, and they have been trying for ages to find out who she is, but they haven’t been able to affirmatively prove it’s this de Breuil woman. If she's willing to name names, if she’s willing to _say_ she’s, ah, this person. Then there are some people who will want very much to talk to you gentlemen.” 

“That is,” Athos had said with a trace of a smile, “exactly what I was hoping you’d say.” 

The taxi jolts over a pothole, and d’Artagnan’s head lolls. Athos’ arm around him tightens. 

“We’ll be home soon,” he says, and d’Artagnan breathes in; the wool of Athos’ coat, that faint touch of vetiver from his soap, they’re so familiar to him now, so beloved. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Athos makes a noise. 

“For what? No, don’t thank me. Not till it’s done.” 

“Not for that.” He butts his head against Athos’ shoulder, and then looks up to meet his eyes. “Just for being you, all right? Just for being exactly who I need. I love you.” 

“I think you’re still drunk,” Athos grumbles, cheeks pink. 

“Here you are,” the driver says, his tone and his stop both more abrupt than necessary. “That’s €18,48.” 

Athos passes over a twenty as he gets out. “Keep the change,” he says sweetly, and slams the taxi door. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

It feels odd to be going in to work the next day. He endures some ribbing from Aramis in the morning about his overindulgence the other night, about keeping Porthos out past his bedtime, but Aramis doesn’t say a word about what d’Artagnan and Porthos discussed. He briefly entertains the idea that Porthos maybe just didn’t tell him, but dismisses it. He’s fairly certain they tell each other everything. But there’s nothing different about the way Aramis is behaving; once he’s done poking at d’Artagnan, he asks after Athos and d’Artagnan says Athos is coming along well. Aramis launches into a story about a guy he knew in the Legion who broke his leg on a march, and before long d’Artagnan’s laughing too hard to worry. 

They’re checking out their guns to head out and pick up Louis when Souza appears in a puff of metaphorical brimstone with somewhat less metaphorical murder in his eyes. “Grab your passports, you’re going to Milan,” he says. “Madame just fired Team Four.” 

Aramis blinks. “Can she do that?” 

Madame has been travelling for New York and London’s respective Fashion Weeks; with Athos out of commission and the rest of Three spending their days chasing after Louis as he wines and dines investors, it’s mostly been Four that has been handling her needs. Apparently, this has become unacceptable. 

“Of course she can’t,” Souza snaps. He’s too dignified to roll his eyes, but his expression manages to convey it anyway. “But I can, and when I find out what they did to piss her off this much, I imagine I will. Go home and pack, we’ll send you everything. Your flight’s tonight at 2300.” 

D’Artagnan and Aramis exchange glances, and then turn back to Modibo, the armory clerk, who’s still standing at the counter holding their gun cases. 

“Guess we need these all week,” Aramis says, his smile full of bullshit. 

Modibo sighs. “I’ll get the paperwork.” 

 

Athos has a garment bag and a carryon on the bed when d’Artagnan gets home, with two of d’Artagnan’s suits hanging side by side from the closet door. He’s frowning at the suits as if they’ve offended him. 

“You heard,” he says, shrugging out of the jacket he only just put on a couple of hours ago. If he can keep this stuff unwrinkled, he can wear it tonight. 

“You need better clothes,” Athos says absently. “I can’t get you anything tailored by tonight, but we can do _something_ with this mess.” 

“Nice to see you too, baby,” d’Artagnan says, kissing his cheek and swatting his hip. “What’s wrong with my clothes?” 

Athos gives him a terrible, terrible look. “It’s just you and Aramis going to Milan. That means, unlike last fall, you’re going to be attending some major events. You can’t walk into Prada looking like a rent-a-cop.” 

“I do not—“ d’Artagnan bristles, but Athos just takes the suit jacket out of his hand, and tosses it back into the closet. 

“Polyester,” he pronounces. “Put on something comfortable. I’m using my once-a-year stereotype pass to take you shopping.” 

So D’Artagnan reads his briefings on his iPad while Athos orders around the staff at Le Bon Marché; he tries on what he’s told to, only occasionally offering his own opinions. He’s surprised when the few things he picks out for himself meet with both Athos and the stylists’ approval — a pair of bright turquoise braces to set off an otherwise staid navy suit, a soft cream scarf with pink pinstripes to wear with a gray sweater on the plane. 

“You’re not bad at this,” Athos says when d’Artagnan gets up the nerve to suggest that he’d prefer some slightly skinnier jeans, and the stylist’s eyes roll back in his head as d'Artagnan tugs them on. “Why have you been dressing like a tramp all this time? No, I’m sorry, that was rude.” 

“Yes, it was,” d’Artagnan answers, turning to check the fit in the mirror. His ass looks _amazing._ “Two more pairs of these should about make up for it.” 

 

They leave Paris a little after eleven, and land in Milan at quarter to one. Constance and Madame immediately decamp to their suite when they arrive at the hotel; d’Artagnan takes first shift while Aramis runs a spot check around the building. They each manage about four hours sleep before they’re on the move in the morning. 

Madame is only walking in two shows, which makes security much simpler, but it doesn’t make it _easy_ ; her diary is packed with meetings, drinks, parties, and of course, attending other shows. They walk into first runway of the week and she looks around, spots the chair with her name on it, then grabs d’Artagnan by the hand. 

“Come on, Charles,” she says. “You’re sitting with me. That jacket is adorable, who are you wearing?” 

“I have no idea,” he answers honestly, shrugging inside the garment in question, a black and white plaid linen zip-up. He’d picked it out near the end of his shopping trip, just making sure it fit before tossing it onto the pile. At that point, he’d given up looking at the price tags. “I just liked the look of it.” 

“Oh no.” Her smile is dazzling.  "They are going to _eat_ you.” 

She’s right. He loses track of how many people, mostly women but not a few men, approach them to ask who d’Artagnan is, where he came from, if he’s a model or if he’s Anne’s lover. She laughs off the questions and tells them all the truth — my bodyguard, no, just my bodyguard. A plump old woman adjusts her glasses and blatantly licks her lips when she looks at him, and whatever she says to Madame — in German, he thinks — makes Anne turn bright red and giggle like a schoolgirl.

It’s rapidly apparent that despite the minuscule difference in physical position, it is a wholly different world to be standing _beside_ a supermodel than it is to be standing _behind_ her.

“This is so much fun,” she enthuses to them that night, back at the hotel. “Charles, why haven’t we been doing this all along?"

“Anne,” Constance says indulgently, “d’Artagnan is normally _protecting—“_

She flips her hand, frowning at both Constance and Aramis. “No, you see. I love my agents. But you normally just lurk and intimidate, and sometimes that’s exactly what’s needed, but sometimes it’s very hard to forget that I’m. It’s very hard to be a real person, sometimes. I know my life is stupid and trivial and shallow—“ 

“Who said that?” Aramis cuts in, rocking forward from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “Is that what that business with the other team was?” 

The way Constance’s mouth goes tight would be an answer even if Madame didn’t nod, lifting her chin. “I will not be belittled,” she says flatly. “Even if it’s true, I will not.” 

“It isn’t true,” Constance soothes, taking Madame’s hand. “And you know that not everyone thinks that."

“At least four of you don’t,” she says, looking from Aramis to d’Artagnan, her smile now small and fragile. “My faithful agents.” 

“Always at your service,” Aramis says, bowing with an exaggerated flourish, and it’s silly, but it takes something of the hurt out of Madame’s eyes. 

“Anyway,” she says after a moment, leaning into d’Artagnan’s side on the sofa. “Having Charles with me makes it easier to breathe. He looks so good, he fits in, he’s charming, and if anything happens…” She pulls his jacket open, exposing his holstered gun, and he bats at her hand. 

“Please don’t ever do that in public,” he says, and he’s thinking less of what would happen in the moment and more of the lengthy and painful execution that Athos and Souza would have in store for him afterward. 

“The point is, Charles can stay _closer_ to me,” Madame goes on. “And then I can actually relax and enjoy the shows.” 

“Is there any reason I couldn’t join you tomorrow,” Aramis asks, "so that d’Artagnan isn’t doing all the work?” 

“Aramis, please,” she says, sounding like a mother explaining to a child why he can’t jump off the roof with paper wings and expect to fly.  “Just look at your shoes.” 

 

D’Artagnan has a brief exchange with Athos by text before bed, mostly talking about work, trying to shut out the sound of Aramis murmuring soppily at Porthos somewhere across the room. Moments later Athos, instincts unerring as always, sends:  _Tell A if he’s going to have phone sex, he should hide in the bathroom like a decent person._

D’Artagnan snorts and does not pass the message on. 

_You’ll be pleased to know that I’ve taken all my pills today,_ comes next. 

_I miss you too,_ d’Artagnan sends back. He gets a single _x_ in return.

 

The next day is much like the first. Aramis keeps watch from a distance, and Constance somehow manages to be ever present without seeming to hover.  Madame sits back and chatters away in the fashion world creole of French, English, and Italian, while d'Artagnan tries to do his job while being petted and adored. Women he's seen a dozen times before, and who never once looked his way when he was just the guy in the suit, are suddenly perching on the edge of his chair, mashing their cheeks together for selfies. They ask Anne where she found him, if she's willing to share him, and at least half of them simply dismiss out of hand the idea that he is a member of her security staff. 

"Bodyguards don't wear Bottega," says a blonde American girl who seems to be made entirely of legs and lips.

"This one does," Madame chirps, dismissing the girl with a wave. "Don't you have a fourth row to be sitting in?" 

The shows themselves are deadly serious, the crowds murmuring from time to time, but mostly just watching the runways, taking notes and surreptitious photos with their phones. Everything that happens around the shows, though, is like an endless cocktail hour. The atmosphere is celebratory, but most people are here to do business; the networking is constant. Late that night they end up at someone’s palazzo (“It’s all right,” Madame pronounces, when d’Artagnan has the poor taste to act impressed) and are almost immediately cornered by a succession of journalists who want to know about the rumors that Anne is going to be starting her own label soon, possibly financed by her husband? Or possibly backed by LVMH? 

Constance runs most of the interference, somehow managing to send the journos away smiling even as she explains in no uncertain terms that Madame will not be responding to any of their questions. More persistent men—and it's always the men, d’Artagnan notes—end up getting either him or Aramis, and a _no comment_  that’s a good deal less polite. Finally Anne’s friend Lucilla rescues them—apparently it’s _her_ house—and sweeps them away to the atrium. It’s less crowded than the front rooms where the bulk of the party is taking place, but there are still dozens of people floating around the sculptures and the potted plants, sitting on the marble steps with their drinks and cigarettes.

A bar is set up to one side, and Aramis gamely makes the first trip; he returns with vodka for Madame, wine for Constance and Lucilla, and a starry look in his eyes. 

“Who,” he asks, gesturing back toward the bar, “is that luscious creature?” 

Lucilla laughs out loud when she sees the woman he’s pointing to, and Anne makes an amused noise before taking a sip of her drink. “That’s Candice,” she says. “She’s American. And you could not _begin_ to handle her.” 

Aramis twirls one side of his mustache. “Oh, I think I could at least begin,” he says, and Constance groans. 

The woman is stunning, fair-skinned and dark-haired, and Aramis’ choice of the word _luscious_ is perfectly apt. Everything about her is somehow  _full_ , curved and ripe: her mouth, her breasts, her ass, her long legs. Even her hair is plump and rich. Aramis sighs longingly. 

“We are, in fact, working,” d’Artagnan points out. “Whether anyone believes that or not.” 

Lucilla laughs again. “Let your friend have some fun, no? Do you work all the time? Besides, I want to see the wreck left behind after Candice devours him.” 

“I’m going to bed soon,” Anne says with a theatrical yawn. “I’ll only need Charles tonight.” 

“Don’t wait up, Charles.” Aramis flashes them all a filthy grin, and then he’s gone. 

“Why,” d’Artagnan sighs, “does everyone let him get away with everything?” 

“He’s Aramis,” Constance says with a shrug.

“His clothes are a tragedy,” Lucilla says, tucking her fingers under her chin. “But the rest? I would.”

D’Artagnan doesn’t miss the tight look that Madame shares with Constance, and he realizes then that Constance knows, she must know. He feels a flash of something cold and uneasy through his belly, an echo of that shock he still remembers so clearly from Phuket, but then Madame is laughing, and slipping her arm through his. 

“Wouldn’t we all?” she says lightly. “Except for Charles, who has eyes for no one but his beautiful lover.” She gives his bicep a tight squeeze, and he feels himself blushing. Anne, he is discovering, is far cleverer than he’d ever given her credit for. He wonders what else she’s noticed.

“Tell us everything,” Lucilla is saying, lighting a cigarette with a soft moan of pleasure. “Details. Positions. Everything.” 

“Well, he bought me these jeans,” d’Artagnan answers with a smirk, and she raises her wineglass in salute. 

“Money _and_ taste? Marry him,” she orders. “Immediately.” 

 

Aramis doesn’t stagger back to the hotel until nearly seven in the morning, looking like he’s been through a hurricane and couldn’t be more pleased about it. “Sorry, sorry,” he stage whispers when he sees d’Artagnan glaring at him. “I’m just. Sorry.” 

D’Artagnan groans and pulls his pillow over his head, trying to drown out the noise of Aramis trying to be quiet. He’s got a screaming champagne headache and he’s only been back in the room for a couple of hours himself, which Aramis will probably guess when—ah. When he opens the bathroom door. 

“Why,” Aramis says in a soft, pleasant voice, “does the bathroom smell like a distillery? And why is the tub full of your clothes?"

“Champagne,” d'Artagnan croaks from under his pillow. “We filled the tub with champagne.” 

“What?” Aramis sounds genuinely startled. “And here I thought I was the one whose night had reached the heights of libertinage.” 

“Not this tub. At the palazzo.” 

“Ah, yes, that certainly makes it less decadent.”

When d’Artagnan pokes his head out, Aramis is grinning at him. He groans again. 

“I want to die.” 

Both of their phones start ringing at the same time, and it sounds like an air raid siren going off inside d’Artagnan’s skull. He pulls the pillow back down. “Who’s it?” he mumbles, with the sick feeling that he already knows. 

“How is Athos calling us both at once?” Aramis says, marveling, and d’Artagnan’s head throbs. 

He’s not sure which part will be the worst, the being fired, or the shouting. His money’s on the shouting right now, if for no other reason than he’s pretty sure it will give him an actual aneurysm. The ringing, at least, has stopped. 

“Yes, he’s here,” Aramis is saying. “No, I don’t— I haven’t— Ah. Right, let me. Christ, Athos, give me a second.” 

The upside is that when he does drop dead of a massive stroke, sometime in the next ten minutes, he hopes, he won’t have to deal with being fired. And his head will, presumably, have stopped aching. Unless that’s what hell is. An endless hangover. His stomach heaves.

“Okay, what am I— ahhhh, that’s what he meant. No, I didn’t know about it! I found out when I got back a few minutes ago!” Silence. A long, terrible silence. “Athos,” Aramis says finally. “It was just a bit of fun.” 

D’Artagnan can actually hear Athos’ _You are not fucking paid to have fun,_ even through the pillow; that, ultimately, is what makes him grit his teeth, sit up, and hold his hand out for the phone. 

“He wants to talk to you,” Aramis says, and it doesn’t matter really, which one of them he means. D’Artagnan takes the phone, and a deep breath. 

“Hello,” he says weakly. 

“Explain to me,” Athos says in a tight voice, “why I am looking at a number of Instagram pictures of you and our client frolicking in what _appears—_ “ His voice rises for a moment, and he pauses to rein it back in before going on. “What appears to be someone’s bathroom?"

“Lucilla’s bathroom,” he says, pressing the heel of his hand into one eye. When he squints out through the other, he can see Aramis leaning on the bathroom door, drinking a bottle of water. Oh god, his mouth is so dry. “She’s a friend of—“ 

“I know who Lucilla Castelleone is. Go on.” 

Right. “Madame gave Aramis the night off. And she and I. We really meant to come back and stay in the rest of the night, but then this photographer friend of theirs arrived, and things got. Well. You’ve seen.” 

He does recall picking out which pictures he liked best on João’s phone, with the vaguest understanding that the pictures might be going on the internet. He does not recall much after that. Still, it takes little imagination to guess that João tagged Anne and Lucilla, and that the sort of people who follow this sort of thing had probably started sharing the pictures around, and the end result was. This. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Athos… I’ve never—“ 

“I know you’ve never,” Athos cuts in. “Which is why you’re talking to _me_ and not to Souza right now. Which is why you and Aramis are going to finish out this assignment _flawlessly_ , and I will take this _stupidity_  out of your hide when you get back on Friday. Am I understood?” 

“Yes.” D’Artagnan waves at Aramis, who makes a series of confused faces before finally handing over the water. He takes a long drink and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“I’m sure you are,” Athos says, clipped, and ends the call. 

 

Aramis, as the only member of their party without a massive hangover, grabs a catnap, a shower, and some breakfast, then goes through the checklist that d’Artagnan should be running with him, generously letting the others sleep off their night. When d’Artagnan wakes for the second time it’s afternoon, and he feels slightly less like someone scooped out his soul and shat on it. He can hear the soft murmur of Aramis’ voice and when the sound doesn’t make his brain feel as though it’s bleeding, he carefully sits up. 

“Just, just a minute,” Aramis is saying from the other bed, covering the phone. “Hi. How are you doing?” 

“I have so many regrets,” d’Artagnan answers, scratching at his scalp. “What’s going on?"

“Constance texted about 0800 to say that their whole day is cancelled until further notice. I’ve checked on them a few times since; they both snore charmingly. Athos rang an hour ago, and is approximately 2% less furious than he was this morning. Hmm? Ah, and Porthos says you should avoid du Plessis for a while when we get home, and that you should never try to drink with models again.” 

“Tell Porthos I am taking his advice very much to heart,” d’Artagnan says, levering himself to his feet and stumbling toward the shower.

He spends what feels like an hour standing under the hot water, head bowed to let the spray hammer at the stiffness in his neck. He thinks about how wonderful it would feel if it were Athos’ hands instead, his thumbs digging into just the right spot to release the tension. If Athos were here, he wouldn’t have a hangover or a headache, and the stupidest thing d’Artagnan might’ve done last night probably would’ve been trying to wheedle a blowjob about of Athos before bed. 

Instead there is… this. Athos is far away and probably still angry, and d’Artagnan’s hair still smells like champagne, and he’s still got to work tonight. 

_I will take this_ stupidity _out of your hide when you get back._

He washes his hair twice, scrubbing a little too hard, and tries to think of anything, anything else than Athos’ voice, and how under the fury there had been the dark, rich taste of promise. 

 

He manages to pull himself together enough to dress and follow Madame out to the last runway of the night, leaving Aramis to get some well-earned sleep. They don’t plan to stay long — she’s walking in the morning, and wants to turn in early. “I mean it this time,” she says, making soothing, apologetic noises as she pets d’Artagnan’s still-aching head in the taxi to the event. “Let’s keep you out of trouble.” From her other side, Constance shoots him a foul look. 

“I think Charles is supposed to be keeping _us_ out of trouble?” Constance suggests in a syrupy voice, although her eyes suggest that everything which happened the night before, including her inebriated makeout session with Lucilla, is entirely his fault. He resists the urge to point out that at least there aren’t any pictures of _that_ on the internet. 

“That’s right,” he agrees instead, just to watch the face she makes as she tries not to hiss at him. 

“I don’t usually have this much fun,” Madame sighs with a dreamy smile. “Louis is very annoyed."

“You can have as much fun as you like, but I do need to dial it back a bit,” d’Artagnan admits.  "Athos was more than annoyed."

“Well, I will tell him that you’re not to be punished for doing what I asked you to do,” she says, as if that’s all it takes. Maybe it does, in her world. “Although I can’t fix things for you at home,” she adds, patting his shoulder. “It must be hard, sometimes, working with your lover.” 

A sliver of icy panic stabs through his stomach. “Mmm,” he says, not looking at Constance. He’s never told her who he was seeing, and she’s never asked; she went to work for Anne almost immediately after their meeting in November, and now that he thinks about it, he can’t remember having had a single conversation with her since then that was more than superficially social. It’s almost always been work or small talk. 

She doesn’t appear surprised or even like she’s listening, when he sneaks a glance; she’s looking down at her phone, then calling out to the driver that he can drop them at this entrance, this is fine. The next few minutes are busy, getting Madame through the crowd to her seat, doing a rapid check of the room with one eye still on Madame, counting the seconds in his head that she’s out of sight as he confirms the exits. It’s so much easier with a partner. He’s glad Aramis will be back with them in the morning. 

Eventually, he supposes as he returns to his seat beside Anne, he’ll be amused at the irony of Aramis being the one who’s in the least amount of shit over last night, considering he’s the one who fucked off in the middle of the job to go get laid. Eventually, when his head stops hurting, and when he’s sure that Athos no longer wants to have him flayed alive. 

Constance and Madame are now conversing in low voices about the morning’s schedule, so he watches the room more than he’s watching them; thankfully, it’s a subdued crowd tonight. He checks his phone, nothing from the office, nothing from Aramis, nothing from Athos. The first two aren’t unusual or unexpected, but the latter is a bit surprising and stings quite a lot. Athos has been dropping him a couple of affectionate lines a day since he’s been gone. He remembers again how furious Athos had been on the phone. 

_I will take this out of your hide._

It’s not his fault, he thinks two hours later, when he’s hustling the women back to their shared hotel suite. He has been quite literally trained to respond to Athos’ voice, it’s not his fault that his brain has taken such a firm hold of that tone, that _image,_ and turned it into an endlessly looping porno inside his head. It’s not something he’s ever wanted, but now his teeth are set in the idea, and he can’t stop worrying at it. 

Aramis is up when he returns to their room, dressed in shorts and a hoodie, and pulling on his running shoes. “Good, you’re alive,” he teases when d’Artagnan comes in. “I need to go burn off some of this.“ He straightens, waving one hand while he bounces on his toes. “I’ve been cooped up all day, I can’t stand it anymore.” 

“Go on,” d’Artagnan says, pausing only to take his jacket and gun off before flopping onto his bed. “Ladies are fine. I’m just gonna. Phmphm.” 

“I’ll say lovely things at your funeral,” Aramis says, and then the door clicks behind him. 

It’s not quite eleven in both Paris and Milan, Athos will still be up. D'Artagnan turns on his side, away from the light, and thumbs out a text.

_can we talk_

_Do you want me to call?_ comes back seconds later. 

_please_

His phone rings almost immediately. 

“Hi,” he says, figuring that’s as good an opening as any. 

“Hello.” Athos sounds tired.

“How’s your hand?” 

“Miserable. It’s been cold and raining all day; I suppose it’ll ache like this the rest of my life, now.” 

Tired, in pain, probably sober. “I’m sorry,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m sorry I’ve added to your—“ 

“Please don’t,” Athos interrupts. “Just… don’t."

“You’re still angry about last night.” 

Athos sighs softly. “Yes. No, listen. Professionally? Yes. Still disappointed that you made such colossally stupid decisions. Armand is furious and demanded that you be fired, but apparently Louis’ impression of you is that you’re just a kid—he blames his wife for everything. And I… if we had a detail that involved shoveling shit, I’d put you on it for a month.” He pauses. “I’m not sleeping well. I’m angry about that, but not. Angry… at you."

“I miss you too,” d’Artagnan breathes, his vision going prickly for a moment. “So much.” 

“I did not expect,” Athos goes on in a low voice, “to feel… This. Unhappy. With you gone.” 

D’Artagnan lets the silence stretch out for long moments, closing his eyes against the swell of emotion that threatens to spill out. At last, he takes a deep breath. “Would you. I mean. If you want. You could… punish me.” 

Silence again. He can't even hear Athos breathing, can't tell if he's made a catastrophic error in judgment, and wouldn't that be perfect, on top of everything else? He pulls the phone away from his ear for a moment, checking to see that the call is still connected. It is. 

"I am not," Athos says finally, and then stops, clears his throat. "I am not going to punish you at home for something you did at work. All that's going to come of this is probably a letter in your—"

"You said," d'Artagnan interrupts. "You said you'd take it out of my hide." 

"I was angry," Athos says. "Of course I didn't mean it literally." 

"What if I wanted you to?" 

"Are you alone?" 

It's not at all the response that d'Artagnan expected, and he actually has to stop and think for a second before answering. "Yeah. Aramis went for a run. He said, anyway. He might be going to see Candice again, I don't--" 

"I don't want to know that," Athos cuts in. "D'Artagnan, I need you to listen to me. I need you to be absolutely clear on this point. Are you listening?"

"Yes." 

"Are you asking me this because you feel bad about what happened last night? Or are you asking me this because you  _want_ it? Because those are very, very different desires, and I will not indulge the former. We don't bring our bedroom to work, and we don't bring work into our bedroom. That's. That's not negotiable." 

D'Artagnan curls in on himself, closing his eyes again, wishing they were having this conversation at home, on the sofa, his head pillowed on Athos' thigh. "I'm asking," he says slowly, "because I can't stop thinking about it. This morning... no, not when my head still felt like a kettledrum. But afterward, when I woke up, when I was in the shower, thinking about what you said... sitting at this stupid fashion show tonight and thinking about your hands... and your belt..." 

"Stop," Athos says in a strangled voice. "Just. Let me think. Let me think for five minutes and I'll call you back." 

"All right."  

Five minutes is a long time when you've just confessed to wanting something that your partner might not want give, something that your partner has conflicted memories of, that might upset him, even disgust him. D'Artagnan balls up more tightly, and then rolls over onto his back, stretching out with the phone on his chest. 

It's a long time. When the phone rings again, he just picks it up, thumbs the answer button and puts it to his ear. He's trying so hard not to apologize again that he just doesn't say anything, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. 

"We're only discussing it," Athos says. "I told you. In the beginning, I told you it was something negotiable for the future, and that's. It's all right. It's all right to want this. But we need to talk about it first." 

"I'm not sure that I  _want it_ , really want it." D'Artagnan exhales slowly. "Maybe I just want to talk about it." 

"So we can talk about it," Athos says, and he sounds relieved. D'Artagnan feels like maybe his heart is starting to beat again. 

"Tell me," he says, sliding his fingers across his belly. "What. What it would be like. How you'd do it." 

"Are you in bed?" 

"Yeah." 

"Put your hands up behind your head. You can hold the phone with one hand if you need to, otherwise, up, out of the way. I want you listening, not touching." 

"Green," d'Artagnan whispers, tucking his free hand away under the pillow. 

This time he can hear Athos breathe in the quiet. 

"You said you thought about my hands, and my belt. Was there anything else? Anything else you thought about being hit with?" 

Hearing it stated so baldly makes d'Artagnan's face flush, his stomach tightening. "No. No, that's all." 

"Do you want to talk about any other things than those two?" 

"I wouldn't want you to do anything, ah. That was bad for you." He bites his lip. 

"I will tell you if anything you ask for crosses one of my lines, all right?" Athos' voice is growing warmer, softer. "I promise." 

"All right." He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Ah. No, though. I can't think of anything else I want to try." 

"Would you want to be tied?" 

"Yes," he sighs, tightening his hand under the pillow into a fist. "Nothing... childlike. Not put over your knee or anything like that. Not smacked like a schoolboy." 

"No, lashed like a man," Athos purrs, and d'Artagnan's toes curl. 

“Yes,” he whispers.

“Standing, then. Hands tied up over your head? Not so high that you can’t stand flat, with enough slack that you could let the rope take your weight. In a doorway, maybe. The bedroom doorway would be nice, wouldn’t it?"

“Yes.” d’Artagnan licks his lips. “I would like that.” 

“All right. So we’d string you up in the bedroom doorway.” Athos’ voice has gone even lower as he warms to the subject, rumbling through d’Artagnan’s body like the vibrations of a distant earthquake. “Would you want to take your own clothes off before? Or have me take them off you after tying you up?” 

D’Artagnan’s cock jerks hard against the front of his jeans, and he swallows a moan. “Uh. Umm.” 

“Let me hear you,” Athos says. “I’ll want to hear you, if we do this. I bet you could take it silently, you’ve gotten so good at being quiet for me, but I’ll want to hear this. Every time that strap lands, I want to hear what it does to you. I want to hear what it makes you feel.” 

He doesn’t hold back the moan this time, and Athos makes a smug noise in reply. 

“Just like that,” Athos says. “Now tell me what to do with your clothes.” 

D’Artagnan swallows hard, trying to find enough moisture in his mouth to speak. “I want you to do it. Tie me, then, then strip me.” He whines a little as he pictures it, as he imagines the sound one of his soft old t-shirts would make as it ripped down the front. 

“Mm, that’s good. Did you think about which belt?” 

“The brown one,” he says immediately. “The one you usually wear with jeans. It’s… it’s wider. And it smells good."

“You like the smell of the leather?” Athos asks, his tone turning softly dangerous. “What if I tied you with leather, too?” 

“Oh fuck.” D’Artagnan’s hips come up off the bed. He clenches his hands, one around the phone, and the other on nothing. “Fuck, yes.” 

“Good. Good, what’s next?"

“I don’t know.” 

“Are you hard yet?” 

“ _Yes._ ” 

“I haven’t even hit you yet, and you’re already hard. Slut.” 

D’Artagnan moans and twists, grabbing at the headboard with his free hand. It’s smooth, polished wood, and his fingertips scrape across it, leaving him with no purchase. “Athos, please.” 

“Please?"

His hand finally closes around the edge of the headboard, and it digs painfully into his palm. He pulls in a gasping breath. “Please don’t… make me ask for it. Please.” 

“If we do this, you _will_ ask for it,” Athos says sharply. “Better get used to it now.” 

“I can’t.” 

“You can, and you will. You already asked once, why should it be difficult now? Please _what?_ ” 

His cock is screaming with need, every word from Athos making it feel more and more desperate, every additional second that he’s not allowed to touch. “Please,” he begs. “Please.” 

“Please. What?” 

D’Artagnan can imagine it all so clearly. Hanging there in the doorway, writhing on the end of the leather strap. The cool air on his overheated skin, the sweat trailing down his back, his cock a heavy, urgent presence, balls aching with want. The smell of the leather in Athos’ hands. He’d trail it down over d’Artagnan’s back, over his ass, letting him feel every inch of it. 

“Please hit me,” he breathes. 

The sound of the belt cracking against skin through the phone makes his entire body jerk, and d’Artagnan cries out, so close to coming he can practically taste it. “God,” he moans, “Fuck fuck fuck, Athos. Please can I—“ 

“Yes, go on, let me hear you—“ 

He lets go of the headboard and yanks his zipper down, digging his hand into his too-tight jeans, finally freeing his cock with a grateful groan. He licks his palm, no time, no patience for anything more, bringing himself off hard and fast, letting every noise spill freely into the phone, into Athos’ ears. 

“Thank you,” he says as he shudders through his orgasm. “Thank you, thank you…” 

“Good, good,” Athos soothes, “so good, shhh, you can be quiet now. Shhh. Lie there for a minute, all right, I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. Just let go. Shhh.” 

Athos keeps mumbling gentle nonsense into the phone while d’Artagnan settles, while he stops gulping air like a landed fish, while his pulse slows from a thunder to a steady beat. He wipes his palm on his thigh, shaking his head. 

“That’s two pairs of jeans I’ve ruined in 24 hours,” he says, and his chest floods with warmth at Athos’ answering laugh. “I love you.” 

“And you,” Athos responds softly. “Feeling better now?” 

“Yes. I should probably clean up before Aramis gets back…” 

“Mm, go take a bath and get some sleep. I’ll see you on Friday.” 

“Yeah. All right. Wait, wait, did you want—“ 

“I’m fine.” Athos says. “This was for you.” 

He is learning, slowly, but he is learning, not to argue when Athos says things like this. “I’ll do something for you when I get back,” he says instead, shifting. The mess on his shirt is starting to feel clammy against his stomach. 

“Just get back in one piece. Preferably without being on the internet again.” 

“All right,” d’Artagnan agrees tiredly. “You have a deal.”

 

If only it were so simple, d’Artagnan thinks the next day, sitting backstage at the show where Madame will be walking. It’s ten in the morning and the vodka and champagne are flowing, and it seems like every five minutes another one of the girls stops to talk and flirt, to grab a picture, to ask for a light. Aramis had volunteered to keep tabs on the runway crowd, cruelly abandoning d’Artagnan to his fate in the dressing area. He looks down at the game of Hoplite on his phone and considers the fact that while he still may be attracted to women, he’s become thoroughly bored by their naked breasts.  

Constance pulls a folding chair up beside him and sits a bit primly, crossing her legs at the ankle. She looks as good as or better than most of the women d’Artagnan’s seen on this job, making leggings with a jacket and a girlish pink blouse look somehow both casual and on point. He turns to her with a beaming smile. 

“About how much,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Scale of one to ten. How much does Jacques resent you being in Milan while he’s off buying zippers in Taiwan?” 

“Twelve, I imagine,” Constance answers in a neutral tone. She opens the bottle of water she was carrying, and takes a drink. “I really wouldn’t know, I’ve been staying at the house with Anne since the new year." 

“You’ve moved out?” He glances automatically down at her hands, at the rings still shining on the left one. She wiggles her fingers before putting the cap back on her water.  

“Not officially. But he knows I’m on my way.” Constance rolls her eyes with a shake of her head. “He said he should’ve never _let me_ get a job.”  

“Wow.” d’Artagnan blinks. “Wow, that is.”  

“An angry, unhappy, disappointed man,” Constance says. She gives a shrug. “Nothing’s ever gone the way he imagined it would, including marrying me. He blames you, of course.”  

“Of course.” It’s sweltering backstage, and he makes a gesture at her water; she rolls her eyes again and passes it over. He takes a drink and passes it back. “I’d do it all again,” he says after a moment.  

“Would you?” She looks at him curiously. “What if I’d left him when you asked, last year? Would we have lasted much longer? Would all your roads, eventually, have led you to Athos?”  

“I don’t know,” he says, spreading his hands, too surprised at her candor to be anything but equally honest. “I know I was so in love with you.”  

“I thought you were. I know you thought you were.” Her smile is gentle, sympathetic. “But you have what you really want now, don’t you?" 

D’Artagnan looks around the room, at the beautiful women and not a few beautiful men; he thinks of how many of them have plugged their numbers into his phone this week. He thinks of how much it hurt when Constance chose her marriage instead of him, and how distant that feels now, like it happened to someone else and the memory is only of having heard about it, secondhand. He thinks of the way that Athos looks when he’s first woken up, his beard tufty and his cheek creased, and the way he always looks a little surprised to see that d’Artagnan is still there.  

“There’s my answer,” Constance says softly, putting her fingers to his temple, tucking his hair back behind his ear. “All over your face.”  

He presses into her touch a moment, eyes closed, and nods.  

 

They arrive back in Paris late Friday night; d’Artagnan and Aramis hand off Constance and Madame to the waiting relief team, and fall more or less headfirst into Porthos’ car. D’Artagnan nods off before they’ve even left the airport, and Aramis has to shake him twice to get him to wake when they stop at Athos’ building. His building. He smiles sleepily, dragging his bag behind him as he climbs out of the back seat. Porthos waves off his thanks, and d’Artagnan heads upstairs.

Athos is waiting in the open door of the flat and d’Artagnan is hit with a powerful wave of deja vu—Athos waiting just like this, on their second night together. He stops, and shakes his head.

“It is so fucking good to see you,” he says, and Athos breaks into a broad smile, stepping forward to close the distance between them.

His building, his flat, his _home_. His arms, tight around his beloved.

“Bath or sleep?” Athos murmurs finally, not just the same words but the same care in his voice, as if they’d just finished fucking instead of not having seen each other for a week.

“Sleep,” d’Artagnan says into the soft collar of Athos’ t-shirt. Even if he wasn’t bone tired, he couldn’t think of a single thing he wants more.

 

It seems as if Athos has gotten older in d'Artagnan's absence, that there are new grays at his temples and new creases around his mouth, between his eyes. D’Artagnan lies beside him and watches him sleep on Saturday morning, counts the lines and the silver strands, and hates to think he was the cause of any of them. 

After breakfast, after a long shower and some bracing coffee, d’Artagnan directs Athos to his chair and then crawls across the carpet to him. When Athos makes a noise like he’s going to object, d’Artagnan looks up at him through his lashes, lets his lips part as he meets Athos’ eyes. Athos nods. 

Still, when he pauses at Athos’ feet, rubbing his cheek on Athos’ thigh, he hears Athos softly say, “You don’t owe me.” 

“No,” d’Artagnan says, “but I love you. I missed you. I want you in my mouth so much—“ 

“Jesus,” Athos hisses, grabbing at d’Artagnan’s hair. “All right, yes,  _yes—“_

They go back to bed after, d’Artagnan pressing himself as close as he can, careful of the cast still on Athos’ hand, and drowse the rest of the morning away.  It’s nearly two when they drag themselves out for lunch, somehow managing to grab a table at the Italian place in Rue Saint-Sabin.

“Listen,” Athos says halfway through the meal, putting his wineglass down with a graceless thump. Even after a month, he’s still mostly useless left-handed. “I need to tell you something.”

D’Artagnan would like to think that their relationship is settled enough now that the words don’t fill him with the beginnings of a panic attack, the same way he would also like to think he’s six feet tall: both are only true with a bit of a stretch. He takes in a slow deep breath and nods.

“All right, what’s up?” he asks, and Athos doesn’t even try to hide his eyeroll.

“Stop hyperventilating,” Athos says, nudging d’Artagnan’s ankle under the table. “I wouldn’t dump you in public.”

“So you admit you have thought about how you’d dump me,” d’Artagnan says, pointing across the table with his fork.

“Of course,” Athos says blandly. “You know I always plan for at least two exfil routes.”

“You’re not funny.”

“Oh, I think it's funny.” Athos gives d’Artagnan’s ankle another gentle kick. “I’m going back to work tomorrow. You’re off, so I set up a meeting for you with the judge.”

It takes a moment for him to process what Athos is saying, then an entirely different type of panic sets in. “I’m going alone?”

“You don’t need me there,” Athos says, picking up his wine again. “It’s just a preliminary, informal meeting—Sunday afternoon at her office. You’re the one with the information, after all.”

“But it was _your_ plan,” d’Artagnan protests, struggling to keep his voice down. It’s a busy, noisy restaurant, there’s hardly any way that anyone could pick out his words from the din, but his heart speeds up anyway. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just answer her questions honestly,” Athos says seriously. “If she thinks you have something, if she thinks the information is worth pursuing, call me and we’ll take the next steps. It’ll be simple.”

 

It’ll be simple, d’Artagnan thinks the next day as he’s heading into his third hour sequestered with Judge Bourdon. She’s an elegant woman in her sixties, somewhat horse-faced, looking more like a politician’s wife than a high-ranking investigator. Her manner is all business, though—all of d’Artagnan’s attempts at lightening the mood have been met with nothing more than raised eyebrows.

Simple. If this is an informal meeting, he’s sure he won’t survive an actual deposition. 

He feels like he’s been backed over by a very chic truck by the time the judge releases him near five o’clock. He’s jittery with hunger and too much caffeine, and delays on the Métro mean it’s after six when he finally drags through the front door of the flat. His head is pounding so hard by then that almost a half hour goes by unnoticed while he gets water and fruit and aspirin; a half hour before he realizes that Athos is not home. 

D’Artagnan lies down on the sofa in the dark, one hand over his eyes, and calls Athos’ mobile. 

“Shit,” Athos says instead of _hello_. “I had no idea what time it was.” 

“Porthos has been handling your work while you were out,” d’Artagnan answers, irritated but somewhat relieved that they’re going to just  _do_ this, instead of tiptoeing around it. “What could _possibly_ have needed your attention for ten hours?”  

“I took some meetings, Souza came in, there was a lot to review. And Porthos has been filing all my papers wrong.” There’s a trace of defensiveness in Athos’ voice, and d’Artagnan has no patience for it right now. 

“You’ve been _arranging papers_.” 

“I’ve been trying to _find_ papers,” Athos says, definitely on the defensive now. “The fact that he also has been filing them left-handed is just a bonus annoyance.” 

D’Artagnan bites down hard on the half dozen snotty replies that spring to his tongue, and sighs instead. There’s a long pause, some shuffling sounds he can’t identify, then the heavy click of a closing door.  

“I’ll get a taxi home,” Athos says in a soft voice. Ding of the elevator. “I’m sorry, I really did lose track of the time. Did it not go well with the judge?" 

“It went fine,” d’Artagnan says, sighing again as his anger ebbs. “It just went until five o’clock, I didn’t eat before going in—" 

“You get all shaky and headachy when you don’t eat,” Athos chides. Another ding, then echoing footsteps. “I think you have hypoglycemia.”  

There’s a series of beeps and clicks in the background, that’s Athos going out through the main security area, and then d’Artagnan can hear the noise of the street. He can’t remember any relationship he’s had where his lover noticed the connection between his moods and his blood sugar. Usually they just complained about him being bitchy, and he didn’t bother to argue.  

“I do,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “You might’ve noticed I’m terrible at managing it as well.”  

“I’ll be home in a few minutes,” Athos says. “Eat one of those pears that Lina bought.”  

“I did." 

“Eat another one. Ah, here’s a taxi. See you soon.” He rings off, and d’Artagnan turns onto his side, pushing his face into the sofa cushions. The aspirin is starting to work, and Athos will be home soon. Athos will be home soon.  

 

He doesn’t really sleep, just drifts and drowses; he hears Athos arrive some time later, feels Athos touch his cheek and kiss his forehead. He can smell food, and his stomach growls as he blinks and sits up. 

“Hi,” Athos says, leaning in for another gentle kiss. “I got _phở_. I haven’t eaten either, come on.”  

“Hi,” d’Artagnan echoes, shuffling after Athos into the kitchen. “We need to talk about your Vietnamese food addiction.”  

“You would eat spaghetti for breakfast if I let you,” Athos answers mildly, setting out cartons and tubs from a bag on the table.  

“Yes, but I’m actually Italian.” He shrugs. “Somewhat. Half. Please come here?”  

Some of the tension d’Artagnan's been carrying finally releases when Athos wraps him in his arms; he hugs back tightly, nose buried in the warm curve of Athos’ shoulder.  

“It’s all right,” Athos soothes, rubbing at d’Artagnan’s back with his good hand. “You’re all right. Do you need something to do tonight?”  

D’Artagnan nods, exhaling slowly. “Yes, please. That would be. Good.”  

“Good,” Athos says. “We’ll eat first. You’ll tell me about your meeting. All right?”  

He nods again, and Athos releases him with kiss. “Good,” Athos says again. “Sit down and eat.”  

Over dinner, d’Artagnan describes his meeting with Judge Bourdon, her questions, how she’d dug into every crack in his story, how much he’d revealed about himself, about Athos, about their respective relationships with Anne and with each other. “I think by the end she could’ve asked me for my bank account number and I’d have told her,” he says, frowning at his chopsticks before looking back up at Athos. “I didn’t… I don’t know how much was actually relevant, honestly. I just. I felt like if I didn’t tell her exactly what she wanted to know—“  

“It’s fine,” Athos says. He shakes his head. “I asked around a bit. Bourdon is a highly respected magistrate who’s worked on several big organized crime and corruption cases, everyone says she’s very ethical and very fair. And also _busy_ , I don’t think she’d have wasted time on frivolous questions.” He reaches across the table, hooking his index finger in d’Artagnan’s. “Did you schedule a formal deposition? You have a full calendar the next few days with Madame at Fashion Week, your presence was… emphatically requested. But I can probably get you out for a day—" 

“No, it’s not scheduled, it’ll be at least a week before it is, that’s what the clerk said.” D’Artagnan turns his hand and takes Athos’, rubbing his thumb over Athos’ knuckles. “Your cast is off this week though, isn’t it? I haven’t even looked at my schedule, do I have time to come with you?”  

They spend several minutes comparing their phones while they finish eating; Athos sends some messages, poking out the words one-handed on the screen and muttering about how fucking happy he’ll be to be rid of the cast. Porthos texts back to Athos that he’ll take d’Artagnan’s Wednesday morning if Athos buys dinner Wednesday night.  

“Sold,” Athos says aloud as he replies the same. “It’s been too long since we all got together. And assuming all goes well in the morning, I’ll be able to cut my own food that evening as well.” He puts the phone down with a decisive click, looking at d’Artagnan with slightly narrowed eyes. “Now. Do you still need something to do?”  

“Yes,” d’Artagnan answers immediately, feeling his face heat. “I need. It’s.”  

“I know,” Athos says gently. “Go shower and clean up. You need a shave, too. Take as long you need, but not more than an hour. Meet me in the bedroom when you’re done. All right?”  

“All right,” d’Artagnan says, getting to his feet and circling the table to kiss Athos, to whisper _green_ in his ear. Athos nods, accepting the permission.  

“Time starts now,” he says, and d’Artagnan goes.  

 

The days flutter past like cartoon calendar pages. He escorts Madame around the Paris runways and parties, backed by Aramis or Porthos; he goes home and lets Athos fuss half-sincerely about all the beautiful people he’s meeting. He does turn up on the internet again, hashtagged #hotbourbonbodygaurd, and the mockery from the rest of the department is blistering. It’s better than taking shit for fucking his boss, though, and when someone writes the hashtag on his locker in bright purple marker, he shrugs and leaves it.  

Athos’ cast comes off early on Wednesday morning and it is so strange to see his pale, shrunken hand revealed, like a small white claw at the end of his arm. Athos isn’t a large man by any measure, just barely taller than d’Artagnan himself, but for all that he looks slight, he’s also strong. He carries long, lean muscle, his arms and legs well defined, and d’Artagnan has seen and felt the strength of his body in more than just their bed. He took a punch from Athos the first day they met, and it felt like being hit by a car.  

“You’ll get your dexterity back,” the doctor says to Athos, watching him flex his fingers, opening and closing his fist just because he can. “You’ll do a month of physio—no arguments. The hand is a machine as delicate and complex as a Swiss watch; it should be treated with the same respect and care.”  

“I’ll make sure he goes,” d’Artagnan promises, and Athos shoots him a look that’s somehow both irritated and grateful.  

He works the rest of the day and joins the other three for a late dinner out; it’s loud and joyful and Athos was right, it has been far too long since they were all together for something other than work. D’Artagnan knows he and Athos have been lost in each other for months, Porthos had reminded him of that not that long ago, but he doesn’t think he really knew how much he’d missed it till they actually were all sat together again.  

Athos drinks too much, but for once it only makes him a little more rude and a lot more handsy than usual. D’Artagnan fends off clumsy advances the entire taxi-ride home, laughing at Athos’ offended face every time he pushes him away. Athos draws up his drunken dignity and calls d’Artagnan a tease, and d’Artagnan laughs until he thinks he’ll be sick. They sleep wrapped tight around each other, and he leaves water and aspirin out when he slips away to work in the morning.  

The days pass, and he hears nothing at all from Judge Bourdon’s office.  

 

The call finally comes almost two weeks after his meeting with the judge; mid-March is windy and wet, and Athos is grouchy about the resulting ache in his hand, frustrated at how slowly he’s regaining his strength. He can’t type for very long, the vibration in the handlebars of his bike makes riding incredibly painful, he can’t shoot straight because he can’t quite grip as firmly as he used to, and his aim wavers. He pushes himself at physio and then comes home hurting and angry. They fight about stupid things, like leftovers and laundry, and serious things, like how much Athos is drinking and how much d’Artagnan is working. 

When the call comes, d’Artagnan's just barely gotten home from an aggravating Louis shift, just barely got his shoes off and loosened his tie; he is tempted to just let it ring. Then Athos yells _Are you going to get that?_  from somewhere in the flat, and d’Artagnan snatches the phone off the table where he’d dropped it next to his keys. 

Judge Bourdon’s clerk is apologetic both for the delay in getting back to him and for calling at dinnertime, but doesn’t linger long on courtesies. She offers him three options for a follow-up meeting in the next two days, and she makes it clear that the judge expects Athos to be with him.  

“I’m not sure if he can—“ d’Artagnan starts to say, and the clerk politely steamrolls right over him.  

“Do you still have my card? Email me back by noon tomorrow with which appointment works best for you both. We’ll see you soon.”  

“Um, yes—" 

“Excellent, good night,” she says, and hangs up.  

D’Artagnan stares at the phone for a minute, listening to the muttered cursing from the kitchen. Athos had physio this afternoon, which means he’ll be grouchy and in pain, which means d’Artagnan will be torn between wanting to make it better and wanting to tell Athos to suck it up already. 

He’d never once suspected that Athos would be such a baby when it came to injuries. Stoic through hangovers that would fell an entire regiment, working without complaint through a late-spring flu and fever shortly after d’Artagnan joined; he’d have thought Athos would be just as forbearing with a broken bone. The days after his hand surgery had put that idea firmly to rest, but he’s almost worse now, now that he expects to be healed and be done with it. D’Artagnan knows another fight isn’t the answer, but he’s not sure what is.  

It’s that uncertainty that makes him move from the entryway though the flat, finally leaning in the open kitchen doorway. Athos is sat at the table, a bag of ice on the back of his right hand, and swiping listlessly at his iPad with his left. It’s the overwhelming, choking feeling of love that comes of simply looking at the bend of Athos’ neck which makes d’Artagnan say,  

“I wish someone had told me how hard it was going to be.” 

Athos looks up immediately, brows drawn together. He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut, his expression flickering from annoyed to something d’Artagnan can’t read, finally settling into what d’Artagnan can only call resignation.  

“I’m sorry,” Athos says. “Life with me—“  

“It’s not that,” d’Artagnan interrupts, feeling a flash of anger, because of course Athos is assuming the worst. Of course. “It’s not… it’s just _life_ , isn’t it?” He shrugs out of his jacket and slings it over the back of a chair before taking the seat beside Athos. He lifts the ice off Athos’ hand, traces his fingertips over the scars, still bright pink.  

Athos turns and looks at him, his tone and face both carefully neutral as he says, “I’m not sure what you mean.”  

“Living with you is hard sometimes,” d’Artagnan says, and he sees Athos swallow. “Loving you never is. _Liking_ you sometimes is—" 

“I’m sorry,” Athos says again, leaning in to bump their foreheads together. He takes his hand from d’Artagnan, fingers still chilly, and lays it along d’Artagnan’s cheek. “I know, I’ve been—“  

“It’s all right, though, I just.” d’Artagnan drops a quick kiss on Athos’ lips before sitting back, shaking his head. “I always figured, when I met… whoever they were going to be. The one. I figured I’d sit down with my dad and he’d tell me. This is how it works. This is how you make it work. This is how you balance everything.”  

“I doubt it makes you feel better, but the closest I ever came to such a talk was my mother telling me once that she hated my father’s taste in jewelry, and that he surely knew it because she never wore any of his gifts more than once, but after twenty-some years, letting a small fiction live on was an easy choice to make, if the alternative was to hurt him.” Athos’ mouth quirks at the corner. “I suppose it is good advice, although at the time I didn’t see the point.”  

D’Artagnan snorts, a brief, wry puff of air. “Should we be telling each other more lies?”  

“No.” Athos’ tone is decisive. “No, I’ve had that relationship. I’d rather have you telling me off all the time, at least I know it’s real.”  

This kiss lingers, and d’Artagnan holds Athos’ face in his hands for a moment. “I love you,” he whispers. “You are a _massively_  spoiled infant.”  

Athos smiles against d’Artagnan’s lips. “And _you_ are a nagging mother hen.” He bumps their foreheads together again and then sits back. “Are you too tired to cook? We could go out.” 

“No, I don’t want to see another restaurant today,” d’Artagnan groans, getting to his feet. “Louis detail,” he adds by way of explanation. "I’m going to change and then I need to talk to you, that was the judge’s office on the phone as I was coming in.”  

Athos follows him into the bedroom instead of waiting behind; he stretches out on the bed, propped on the pillows against the headboard, while d'Artagnan changes. “So is your deposition scheduled?”  

“No, that’s the thing.” d’Artagnan rummages in a drawer; he finds some pajama bottoms that might be Athos’ and pulls them on. The soft, baggy sweater he filches out of another drawer and throws on over his undershirt is definitely Athos’. “The judge wants both of us to meet with her.”  

Athos _hmms_ , rubbing at the side of his nose. “They’re going to give Anne her deal,” he says after a pause. “Well. They’re going to let her think that she’s got it.”  

“You think so?” d’Artagnan leans back on the armoire, crossing his arms. “Judge Bourdon only talked to me about that very briefly, when I explained what she, what Anne had asked me to do. The rest of the conversation was just all about what I knew about her in relation to, you know. Everything else." 

“Right. Everything else.” Athos frowns slightly. “No, I think they’re going to go for it. If she wants my testimony about last summer, then she’d ask me to come in by myself. If she wants to know about the past, about what I knew or didn’t know about Anne… before. The same. Asking us to come in together only makes sense if they need something that we can only give them together.”  

“Baiting the hook for Anne.”  

“I could be wrong.” Athos shrugs, flexing his right hand. “The judge didn’t give much away when she was questioning you, she’s good at what she does. We should probably have an attorney with us.”  

“I’ve got three times to pick from, the first one is late tomorrow.” d’Artagnan looks around for his phone, realizes he left it in the kitchen and waves in that direction. “We can compare calendars in the morning.”  

“Good,” Athos says. “I’ll see when my cousin Jeanette is available to—what? Why is that funny?”  

“It’s not, really,” d’Artagnan says, still laughing regardless. “It’s just. Is there someone in your family for every occasion? How many cousins do you _have_?” 

"I have no idea,” Athos says, apparently taking the question seriously. “Counting first cousins only? Ahhh, eight. Well, nine if you count Paul, but nobody does. Marion was my uncle Simon’s only child. Then there’s Cristiano, Luisa, and Pascual from my aunt Émilie. And then there’s my aunt Monique’s kids, you know Guy, he has a brother, that’s Didier who works with Marion, and two sisters, Simone and Jeanne. But _Jeanette_ is my father’s cousin’s daughter. Her grandfather was my grandfather’s younger brother."  

D’Artagnan stares.  

“What?” Athos repeats.  

“I…Your family.” He shakes his head. "It's like a bad joke about the aristocracy."  

Athos gives him a flat look. "While that is in fact true, the size of it isn't that bizarre. Plenty of people have large extended families."  

"But I'd put money that most people don't _know_ theirs, know their... father's cousin's daughter.” D'Artagnan grins. "I suppose as long as you aren't all marrying each other, though..."  

Athos’ poker face breaks, and he rolls his eyes at the ceiling. "The last two generations, I'll have you know, diversified the de la Fère gene pool quite a bit. We're a very colorful lot these days."  

“Oh? No bucktoothed princesses hidden away?” d'Artagnan says, flopping beside Athos and snuggling to his side. He rests his head on Athos’ hip, and Athos’ arm comes down on his back immediately.   

"Mm. Well, Pilar is a princess, but she's got lovely dentition." 

"Oh my god, you're serious,” d'Artagnan laughs. "No, you're not serious."  

"My father's mother's mother was Spanish," Athos says, as if that counts as an explanation. "Anyway, Spanish royalty is complicated, and Pilar is only _technically_ a princess—" 

D'Artagnan is laughing harder now, shoulders shaking. “ _Technically_ ," he echoes.   

"—and she’s not really allowed to use the title. It's complicated," Athos says again. "Aristocracy is utter bullshit, and I try to participate in it as little as possible."  

"I know,” d'Artagnan says, still amused. He pats at Athos' belly. “And you’ve only got what, the three servants now?”  

"We like to act like we're just bourgeoisie who made good, just a proud family tradition built of hard work,” Athos goes on, ignoring the comment. His voice has turned somber.  "We don't like to think about where the money came from, in the beginning, the titles, where the land came from, the hands that built our homes and our fortunes...” 

He pauses, and d’Artagnan waits. These are things that Athos has never brought up before, things that d’Artagnan has now and then wondered but never voiced. He remembers the château rising up against the sunset when they arrived at La Fère, after driving through the village and the estate that gave Athos’ ancestor his name. He remembers the way the host at Amici snapped to attention when Marion merely raised an eyebrow, the casual way Athos flashed his title to get them into a closed gallery at the Pompidou.  

“Not slaves, not African slaves, we didn’t... But the people who lived on a comte's lands were as good as, back in those days." Athos pauses again. “And I don’t know what kinds of things we invested in, before the Revolution. I know we held on to as much as we could, hiding out in Picardy or in Spain while so many like us were killed. I know that rebuilding the fortune was not always honest.  My grandfather and his brothers, they founded the bank in the 20s. So when the Germans came… They looked the other way. All the Paris bankers did. The Nazis eliminated the Jewish bankers, and people like my grandfather just moved into the spaces left behind like nothing happened.”  

D’Artagnan sits back up, looking at Athos, whose jaw is set tight, his eyes dark with anger. After a moment, Athos tilts his head back, knocking his crown a couple of times against the headboard. “I remember as a little kid, the rows my father and him had. I was… I don’t know, four or something? When Mitterrand seized _Rothschild Freres._ Grandfather was delighted. Dad and Uncle Simon could hardly be in the same room with him.”  

“I don’t really know anything about that,” d’Artagnan says cautiously, putting his hand on Athos’ thigh. “But like you said, your generation… you’ve come a long way.”  

“Sure.” Athos shrugs one shoulder. “That doesn’t make the money any less dirty. And I still spend it. We all do.” He sighs, a long deep breath. “How’d we even get on this? Ah, my joke of a family. No, don’t apologize.” He stops d’Artagnan with a raised hand. “It’s good to get this out in the open. It’s good for you to know where we come from. I love my family,” he says, and it sounds like the confession of a long-held secret. “I hate the lies we tell ourselves about the past, the parts we leave out. So what, it’s true, many times in our history the de la Fères didn't have even a sou to their name. But we _always had the name._ We always had our advantage. We've always exploited our advantage.” Athos shakes his head. “A door would always open for us that wouldn’t for anyone else. And I can’t claim to not have taken that advantage when it’s suited me. Just like you said, a bad joke." 

"I see,” d’Artagnan says. He thinks he does, anyway.  

"I never worked for anything," Athos says in soft voice. "You don't know how right you are when call me spoiled."  

"Well, I'm not going to argue that point,” d’Artagnan says, daring to try to lighten the mood, and knows he’s bet right when Athos' hand lands on side of his head in an ineffectual swat.  

“Brat,” Athos says, leaning over and kissing the same spot.  

"I don't know anything about my history,” d’Artagnan offers after a moment. "My mother never spoke of her family, only sometimes of the neighborhood in Naples where she grew up. And my father's side... it's an old Gascon name, I know that much. He worked with his uncles but they were bachelors, and his sisters both moved away and married and didn’t keep in touch, so… there’s nobody left to tell me. He was always saying that he was going to tell me things later, when we had time.” It's odd, but it doesn't hurt as much to say as it once did.  

“Do you ever think about looking up your mother’s people?”  

D’Artagnan half-smiles, but shakes his head. “No. I mean. Yes, I have thought about it, but I’m… My mother’s maiden name was Esposito. Literally the most common name in Naples. It’s like being called Martin in Paris. But even if it weren’t a needle in a haystack… I don’t know how to put it. I guess… she left home for a reason, right? She left home as a teenager and ran all the way to another country. You don’t do that if you’ve had a good life. You don’t refuse to talk about your family if they were good people.”  

“No, that’s probably true,” Athos agrees in a murmur.   

“When I was a kid,” d’Artagnan says, looking down at his hands. “Right after she died. I would daydream that maybe someone in her family heard about it, and they would come find us. My grandparents would show up and... Maybe they’d be rich, and kind, and whatever happened between Mama and them was just a misunderstanding. I liked to imagine the presents they’d bring me, and my grandmother would sing the same songs to me that Mama had… I wanted these strangers to come and _fix_ everything. My father wouldn’t have to work so hard, somehow, and I wouldn’t feel so.”  

He rubs at his mouth, like he can stop the hot, suffocating ball of pain rising up in his throat from spilling out.  

“Hey. Come here.” Athos reaches out, and d’Artagnan folds into his arms, pushing his face against Athos’ shoulder. He lets out his breath in long, shaky sigh, feeling Athos squeeze the back of his neck. “You’re all right,” Athos says. “You’re all right. You’ve got… you’ve got my family now. Dysfunctional, inbred, fascists and all.”  

“And the princess?” d’Artagnan mumbles wetly into Athos’ shirt.  

“And the princess,” Athos agrees. “And we’ll…. we’ll do this thing. All right? We’ll go see the judge, and we’ll do this thing, and we will find out what happened to your father. I promise.”  

“All right.” d’Artagnan sighs again. On top of his exhausting workday, their conversation has ranged over so many emotional peaks and valleys that he feels like he's been on an actual mountain march. He yawns. “I’m just going to close my eyes for a minute.”  

“Go ahead,” Athos says. “I’ve got you.”  

 

It’s later, much later, in the dark—after a hard nap, after Athos has spoken to his cousin, after d’Artagnan has finally eaten and showered, and they’ve put aside the intensity of their earlier talk in favor of idle chatter about work—that d’Artagnan brings it up again.  

"Do you think she really knows something?” he asks, and there is no need to qualify what or whom he means. Athos stiffens beside him for a moment, then relaxes on a long exhale.  

“I don’t know,” Athos answers slowly. “Not for certain. But I keep coming back to what I said to you before. If she was confident of her plan, then she must have something of value to you. She wouldn’t bet her freedom on a bluff." 

“Tell me it’s going to be all right,” d’Artagnan says, and he feels Athos’ hand find his, and squeeze.  

“Yes. It’s going to be all right.”  

 

They take the first appointment offered by the judge’s office, the one for late the following afternoon: partly because Jeanette is available, partly to just get it over with. D’Artagnan puts on his best suit, and then takes it off when he comes out to find Athos in casual trousers and a sweater. He changes clothes three more times before settling on jeans and a shirt and blazer; he almost changes again but Athos comes back into the bedroom and grabs his hands.  

“Car’s waiting,” he says firmly, kissing d’Artagnan’s knuckles. “Time to go.”  

Jeanette de la Fère looks like slightly retouched photo of Marion: her hair is dirty blonde, her skin is pale and freckled, but they are otherwise nearly identical. Like Marion, d'Artagnan would be hard pressed to guess her age; older than Athos, younger than fifty? Maybe?  

"Are all the de la Fères movie stars?" he flirts when he shakes her hand, and Jeanette gives him an unimpressed look.  

"I hope you didn't try on that sort of nonsense with Judge Bourdon," she says. "Hello, Olivier." 

She drops d'Artagnan's hand to turn and kiss Athos' cheeks. Athos takes her arm.  

"Save the hardass routine for the courtroom," he says. "You don't need to be a bitch." 

"But it's what I'm good at," she says lightly, turning on one tall, sharp heel. D’Artagnan catches a glimpse of crimson on the sole. "Come, I've gotten us a room so we can brief before we go in."  

Jeannette is, according to Athos, one of the premiere criminal defense attorneys in Paris, if not all of France. That may be, he reflects, why everything she says sounds like a challenge, like she’s trying to pick a fight. Maybe she’s just used to communicating that way. Or maybe she’s just…. like that.  

“—known this was a possibility, you should’ve contacted me immediately,” she’s saying to Athos.  "It was stupid to wait to the last minute.”  

“Nevertheless, here we are,” Athos answers, apparently unperturbed. He smiles slightly when he turns back to d’Artagnan, putting his hand on d’Artagnan’s back for a moment and pulling out his chair. D’Artagnan smiles back, and sits.  

They go briskly through the notes Jeanette made from her phone conversation with Athos; it doesn’t take long. Freed of any trappings, the facts themselves make up a short list. When they’re done, Jeanette folds her hands on the table, and looks at them both in a way that makes d’Artagnan remember his first weeks in the army. He feels weighed, and found wanting. 

“Have either of you left anything out?” she asks. At d’Artagnan’s headshake and Athos’ flat _no,_ she leans forward. “Have you _lied_ about anything?”  

“No,” Athos repeats more sharply overtop of d’Artagnan’s reply. “Jeanette, I’m aware that most of your usual clients are scum, and I am also aware that you have no reason to be treating either of us like your usual clients. So _back off._ If you're angry with me—" 

“I haven’t heard from you in six years,” Jeanette snaps, “you _asshole_ , of course I’m angry with you.”  

_Oh_ , d’Artagnan thinks.  

Athos pushes to his feet, the chair scraping loudly on the floor. “And as I was about to say, you have every right to be. But you have no right to take it out on my partner, and if you didn’t want to help, you could’ve said so when I called.”  

“Athos,” d’Artagnan says, grabbing at his wrist. They have less than five minutes before they need to head in to the judge’s office, they don’t have time for this.  

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to help, you little bastard,” Jeanette says, standing to face him, and in her heels she’s a good three inches taller.  

“Please?” d’Artagnan tries.  

“Fine,” Athos says. “Are you ready?”  

“Of course I’m ready,” she says, snapping her notebook closed. “The two of you keep quiet, and let me handle the judge.”  

“Fine,” Athos repeats, taking d’Artagnan’s hand. “Dinner after?”  

“Yes, and you’re buying.” Jeanette picks up her attaché case and heads for the door. 

 

Judge Bourdon and Jeanette have met before, d’Artagnan realizes, and clearly under more adversarial circumstances. They start volleying almost immediately, waving off introductions.  

“I should’ve known that M. de la Fère would bring you in,” the judge says by way of greeting, and Jeanette sniffs.  

“Yes, you should have. You do look tired. Are you slipping, Your Honor? Thoughts turning toward retirement? " 

“Not until I’ve put at least a dozen more of your clients away,” Judge Bourdon says, even as she’s waving them into chairs across from her desk. “How is Serge finding La Santé these days?”  

“I have no idea,” Jeanette says, sitting and primly crossing her ankles. “I know his retainer cheque cleared before you froze his assets.”  

“Careful, Counselor. You wouldn’t want to imply that you gave a client a less than thorough defense." 

“Certainly not, Your Honor.” Jeanette looks pointedly at d’Artagnan and Athos, who’re still standing; Athos nods and sits, so d’Artagnan follows suit. “I never let emotion cloud my _professional_ judgment. But today’s matter is personal.”  

“I’m sure it is.” The judge’s gaze flicks over the two men, and she seats herself last. “This may be the first time we’ve ever openly shared a congruence of aims.”  

Jeanette inclines her head in the barest nod. “If your aim is to drop the murderous harpy my cousin was once married to in a hole for the next twenty years, then yes, we are perfectly aligned.”  

The judge settles back in her chair, gazing at them for a moment before drumming her fingers on the edge of her desk. “I’ll be blunt, Counselor, _monsieurs_. I don’t give one single solitary fuck about Anne de Breuil, and you all three of you know it. Of course I know that MoJ gossip has reached you, it’s why they contacted my office in the first place.” She waves at Athos. “So we are all of us on the same page, yes?”  

At the murmurs of assent from d’Artagnan and Athos, Jeanette shoots them a sharp look. “No. We are on the same page when you explain who the big fish is. If my clients are going to bring in your bait, then we need to know who you’re planning to catch with it.”  

Judge Bourdon looks between them once more before she speaks, her voice calm, her eyes anything but. “Armand du Plessis." 

D’Artagnan glances at Athos; his expression betrays nothing, and not for the first time, d’Artagnan wishes he had that same skill. He’s sure his shock is writ large on his own face. Jeanette merely shifts, and crosses her ankles.  

“You must be confident, if you’re willing to tell us. Rumors of  _M. le Cardinal_ ’s criminal activities have always been just that,” she says. “No witnesses, no disgruntled former employees, no paper trail… not even a parking ticket.”  

“Because all the cars he drives are owned by Louis Bourbon,” the judge says tartly. “Du Plessis never, ever does with his own hands, or his own money, what he can do with someone else’s. That’s where de Breuil came in.”  

“Explain,” Athos says, and d’Artagnan turns, surprised. He’s not sure what someone else would see, would hear, someone who hasn’t been watching Athos more or less constantly for a year. There’s a strain in Athos’ voice, in that brief word; it matches the infinitesimal deepening of the lines on his forehead, the tightening of his mouth. D’Artagnan reaches out and takes Athos’ hand, his right hand, and folds their fingers together.  

Judge Bourdon looks between them again, weighing her words, perhaps, and Jeanette makes a _go on_  motion. “The dramatic pauses are quite unnecessary, Laetitia,” Jeanette says. “I still haven’t heard any reason for my clients to get any further involved in your… investigation.”  

The judge appears to ignore Jeanette, focusing instead on Athos. “As I believe you’ve heard, we have been trying to connect a series of killings to du Plessis. A man like du Plessis, he doesn’t come into contact with the lower levels of his organization, which does quite a bit to maintain the fiction that he is not, in fact, at the head of it. His orders may filter through a half dozen intermediaries before they reach their targets, and many of those we believe to work for him are also legitimate Bourbon employees, further masking their association. At the bottom levels, we’ve identified eight individuals who have certainly killed on behalf of du Plessis’ people, but none of them can definitively link back to him. There is an unfortunate gap between what we _know_ and what we can _prove_.”  

“And Anne is one of those eight?” Athos prompts.  

“No, she is the exception. For several years we have known about a contractor, a woman, who dealt with du Plessis alone, no middlemen. She is the _only_ person known to have taken orders for killings from the Cardinal himself. Most of what we’ve heard is contradictory: she’s petite, she’s tall, she’s dark-haired, she’s blonde… The only things that our sources all agreed upon was that she was very attractive, that she always got the job done, and that she went by the name ‘Milady.’”  

“English?” Jeanette asks, raising an eyebrow.  

“She may well be.” Judge Bourdon shrugs one shoulder. “We don’t know much about her origins, and for a long time we didn’t have many leads on who she might be. Beautiful women are seen with du Plessis all the time, after all. We investigated several of them, but none seemed to connect to any of the Milady murders, at least at first. In the end, it was the _absence_ of killings that made us realize that one of those women might be the one.”  

“While she was in prison for killing my brother,” Athos says, and his voice is so, so weary that d’Artagnan wants to end this meeting right now, to take Athos home and put him to bed. He wants to crawl over Athos and block out the world with his body, let all the missiles of fate hit his own back. He has to settle for squeezing Athos’ hand, but Athos squeezes gratefully back.  

“Yes,” the judge says. “I’m sorry.”  

“The pause… it didn’t start before?” Athos asks. It takes Jeanette a second to catch on but it hits d’Artagnan immediately, like a slap. During their marriage, he means. Did she kill during their marriage? 

“It’s difficult to say. We still don’t have a full picture of the scope of her work for du Plessis. We are hoping, based on her request to M. d’Artagnan, that she is ready to give him up for her own freedom.”  

“No,” Jeanette says, her cheeks darkening. “No deal. She does not walk free, not again.”  

“Of course not,” Judge Bourdon snaps. “I’m well aware of how many times you have played this government for a fool, but we are not, in fact, idiots. Do you really think we’d let go a multiple murderer?" 

“You just plainly said you didn’t care about her. And if it meant bringing down du Plessis?”  

“No, not even then. You have my word that they’ll fall together. De Breuil’s testimony would give us the means to crack du Plessis’ organization open and drag him into the light. But de Breuil has to believe she is getting a return on her investment. She wants a deal, we’ll promise her a deal. If she believes she’s informing on the Cardinal, she will likely give us enough to prosecute—”  

“And she’ll be sprung again on appeal,” Jeanette snaps, “after her defense proves you conspired to deprive her of her rights, for god’s sake, Laetitia—“

“Once again, I am not that stupid, Jeanette, of course she’ll be prosecuted independently, with evidence she didn’t provide against herself—“

“What about my dad?” d’Artagnan can hear his own voice break when he speaks, and he bites the inside of his cheek when the judge and Jeanette both stop mid-sentence to stare at him. “I still don’t understand… if Anne worked for Armand, okay, whatever. What does that have to do with my dad? Why did she say she knew why my father was murdered? He was a farmer.”  

“I don’t know.” Judge Bourdon shakes her head. “I don’t know why she wants to be questioned about your father’s murder. She may have lied just to get someone to listen to her, hardly a first.” 

“But you are going to question her about it?” he presses. “That is why we are all here. Isn’t it?”  

Jeanette presses her mouth into a tight line for a moment, and then raps her knuckles on the edge of the judge’s desk. “Yes,” she says. “M. d’Artagnan’s case is included, or you get no cooperation from my clients.”  

“Fine,” the judge says, flipping her hand like she’s waving off an annoying insect. “Since that’s what the woman wants anyway, that’s where we’ll start.”  

There’s a sort of ringing in d’Artagnan’s ears for the rest of the meeting, a feeling of unreality as he listens to the others talk. He agrees to send a message to Anne’s attorneys saying that he’s changed his mind; Jeanette explains the steps he’ll need to go through to make it appear that he’s done as Anne asked. Athos is jotting notes, Jeanette and the judge are bickering, and d’Artagnan feels almost like he’s somewhere else, watching from a distance.  

“Are you all right?” Athos asks in an undertone as they leave. He brushes d’Artagnan’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Do you want to go home?" 

“No, some food would be good,” he answers, dredging up a smile. “It’s just a lot.”  

“Mm.” Athos nods. “All right, then. Let’s see where the lady wants to eat.”  

 

It's really too early for dinner, so Jeanette suggests a nearby bar; she and Athos start on each other before they even start walking down the street. By the time they’re on their second round, d’Artagnan has stopped trying to contribute to the conversation. They talk so rapidly that it sounds almost like another language, darting from subject to subject like a pair of competitive hummingbirds. Four and a half drinks in and Athos is getting a tight look at the corners of his eyes, his voice getting a little sharper, his comebacks a little nastier; D’Artagnan almost cries with relief when Jeanette’s phone rings. She glances at the screen and shakes her head, gesturing that she’ll be right back even as she walks away demanding that the caller talk to her,  _vite._

“You’re not enjoying yourself,” Athos says, nodding at the still-full glass in front of d’Artagnan.

“Not really,” he answers, trying to smile but unable to force his mouth to make anything beyond a crooked line.

“Do you want to go?” Athos picks up d’Artagnan’s untouched glass and drinks most of it in a long swallow. “If you want, we can go.” 

“Yes, you can,” Jeanette says, reappearing behind Athos with sigh. “Client crisis, I do need to deal with it personally. But don’t think I’m not collecting on that dinner, _Olivier._ ” 

“I pay my debts, _Jenny_ ,” he says sweetly, and she punches him hard in the shoulder. 

“That’s for being a shit,” she says, and slides into her coat. “You have your homework. Let me know when it’s done. After that, Laetitia’s clerk will call me, and I will call you. Don’t talk to anyone else, don’t do anything more until then, do you understand?” 

“Go, deal with your emergency.” 

“ _Athos_.” Jeanette sighs again. “Don’t make me have an emotion in public, please. It’s so gauche.” 

“Yes, we understand,” Athos says, his face suddenly unreadable. “Get out of here.”  

She presses hard kisses to each of their cheeks, and goes. 

 

At home Athos retires to the sofa with his iPad while d’Artagnan pulls together some dinner; once it’s in the oven he returns to the living room to find that Athos is out cold, iPad on the floor and one arm flung up over his eyes. D’Artagnan can’t help a smile, and throws a blanket over him, settling into a chair with his own reading. 

He’s feeling less tender when the oven timer goes an hour later, and Athos doesn’t do more than twitch.  He debates trying to wake him, whether he’ll get his head bit off or whether Athos will be apologetic and shamefaced; neither particularly appeal. In the end he eats alone, and goes to bed early. If Athos is hungry, he knows how to use the microwave. 

It’s after three when Athos slides into bed, jostling d’Artagnan awake—it’s certainly not intentional, and when he hears Athos catch his breath and go still, d’Artagnan sighs and fumbles in his direction. 

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, finding Athos’ hip and patting it. “Just go back to sleep.” 

“Sorry—“ Athos whispers, and d’Artagnan rolls over. 

“Just go to sleep,” he says again, and pulls the covers up snug around his ears. Athos doesn’t say any more. 

The next time d’Artagnan wakes it’s to chilly sheets beside him. Almost seven, and the flat is quiet; he wonders if Athos went to work early, but then he smells coffee, hears footsteps coming toward the bedroom. D’Artagnan sits up and scrubs his face with his palms. 

“Hello,” Athos says in a soft voice, holding out the ugly Texas mug. “Careful, it’s hot.” 

D’Artagnan takes the cup and wraps his hands round it, breathing in the steamy scent. “Thank you,” he says, and tips his chin up, lips parted. 

Athos gives him the kiss he wants, sweet and slow; when it breaks, Athos steps back, leaning on the wall with his hands in his pockets. He’s dressed for the office, but his tie is loose, and that one bit of hair that always falls onto his forehead without a ton of gel is dangling free. 

“I should—“ Athos begins, and d’Artagnan nods. 

“Now isn’t the time,” he says, “but we need to talk about this.” 

Athos nods back, shoulders dropping. “I know.” 

“I know nagging you about it isn’t going to do anything but frustrate us both.” D’Artagnan takes a sip of his coffee. Of course it’s perfect. “But you worry me. And you scare me, sometimes.” 

He can see Athos’ throat ripple as he swallows, nodding again. “It’s hard,” Athos says, not quite meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes. “Especially with certain people, family, it’s hard to be around them and _not_ drink.” 

“I get that. Jeanette is pretty hard to take sober.” 

Athos laughs. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“I know, you mean the… habit, the custom, it’s just what you do, what everyone does.” 

“Yes.” Athos pushes his hair back, frowning slightly when that lock just falls forward again. “It’s like. I don’t. I feel better when I don’t feel like shit, if that makes sense. And you don’t make me feel like shit, so it’s easier most of the time, to not go too far.” 

D’Artagnan puts his cup down on the nightstand, and shakes his head. “It does make sense, but I can’t fix you, Athos. I love you, but I know that I can’t fix you, and I can’t be responsible for this, I can’t…” He makes a helpless gesture. “We’ll just end up resenting each other, and that is the last thing I want.” 

“No, you’re right,” Athos says, swallowing again. “Maybe we just handle one problem at a time? Get this shit with Anne over with, and then we can talk about it. How I can… do something about it.” 

“That’s good, we can do that.” D’Artagnan gets out of bed, straightens Athos’ tie and pulls it snug at the base of his throat. “I’ll hold you to it.” 

“Agreed,” Athos says, trailing the back of his finger up the side of d’Artagnan’s neck, along his jaw. 

“Go to work.” D’Artagnan turns his head, and kisses Athos’ knuckles. “I’ll see you at eleven.” 

Athos leans in for a real kiss, dropping his hands to d’Artagnan’s hips; finally, d’Artagnan has to step back. 

“Go,” he repeats, pointing at the door. 

“I’m going,” Athos says, and leans in again. 

 

D’Artagnan delays until it’s almost time for him to leave, making breakfast, taking his time in the shower and picking out his clothes. He’s with Madame later today; he needs to look good, she expects it from him now. He picks up his phone and unlocks the screen at least a dozen times before finally going back through his calls and selecting the number. 

For a wild moment, as the line rings at Anne’s attorneys’ office, he has the fear that she herself will pick up, that he’ll have to speak to her again and he’s not _ready_ , he’s not sure that he’ll ever be ready. The fact that he actually went to the prison and faced her once already seems like something that happened to someone else. A young-sounding man answers, and d’Artagnan stumbles over his words in his irrational relief: _Yes, I’d like to speak to Edouard Malan, I’ve been—I mean. He’ll know what it’s about. Oh. My name? Yes. Sorry._

The conversation with Malan is brief—the man sounds positively jovial when he hears that d’Artagnan has changed his mind. “I had a feeling we’d hear from you again,” Malan says, and d’Artagnan bites his tongue before answering. 

“I’ve thought about it a lot,” he says, which is not a lie. 

Malan says he’ll confirm with his client, and be in touch. Several hours later, as he’s nearing the end of his shift, an email arrives asking d’Artagnan if he could please come to their offices in the morning, we’ll walk you through the paperwork to file the petition, our client is very grateful, et cetera. 

“It’s what we want,” he tells Athos that night, “but it still feels wrong. Not that I’m doing something wrong, I don’t think I am, just—“ 

“Distasteful?” Athos offers, making a face that suggests he’s understating by quite a lot, and d’Artagnan nods his agreement. 

In the end he only has to spend about a half hour dealing with the lawyers, and it’s not even Malan or any of his partners, it’s an assistant of some sort who waits while d’Artagnan reads the papers, then points out all the places he needs to sign. She tells him which office the completed petition needs to be filed at; he takes it instead to Jeanette’s office, where she skims the pages, insults Malan’s legal writing abilities, and then hands it off to her own clerk for delivery. 

“Now we wait,” she says once the clerk has bustled out of the room. “Drink?”

“It’s ten-thirty in the morning,” d’Artagnan protests, laughing. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’m not serious,” Jeanette agrees, “but I am going to have a cigarette.” 

“Oh, that’s fine.” He waves at her. “I don’t mind.” 

She looks back at him with a raised eyebrow. “I wasn’t asking your permission,” she says, pulling a cigarette from a case on her desk and lighting it with a gold lighter. She leans back in her chair, and the sun catches her hair, bright as the metal. 

“How is it,” d’Artagnan says, “that Marion has the reputation as the scary one?” 

Jeanette laughs, and exhales a long plume of smoke at the ceiling. He’s never seen her laugh before, and her smiles for Athos and the judge both had been shark-toothed. She might be even more beautiful than Marion, he thinks, when she smiles for real. 

“Marion is ruthless,” Jeanette says, taking another drag from her cigarette. “You’ll see, if you stick around. Pay attention to the news from the finance sector. Trust me, she’s the one with the real taste for blood. It’s why she’s running the company, and not any of the rest of us.”

“You seem to be doing all right,” d’Artagnan points out, looking around her office, the sleek modern furniture, all glass and chrome, probably cost as much as a car. And even he knows that the large red canvas behind her desk is a Rothko. 

 “When you’ve always had money, acquiring more is not really a motivator,” Jeanette answers frankly. “It means you can have nicer things, of course—“ She acknowledges the painting with a gesture over her shoulder. “But I don’t do what I do for the money, and neither does Marion. No, you see, finance is about _winning_.”

“And criminal defense isn’t?” 

“Of course it is, for some people.” Jeanette shrugs, and smokes a moment. “I do like to win. But I became an attorney because I believed in justice, and for every hour I bill to some rich scum—who deserves a proper defense the same as anyone else—I am putting ten or twelve into my _pro bono_ docket.” 

“That doesn’t make you less intimidating,” d’Artagnan says. “You’ve got this whole… thing. I’ve seen a little of Marion at work, and it’s definitely frightening, but I’ve also seen her with her kids.” 

“If you think being a mother makes a woman _less_ ruthless instead of more, you know absolutely nothing about women.” 

“I know absolutely nothing about women,” d’Artagnan agrees, and Jeanette laughs. 

“Trust me,” she says again. “Marion is the scary one. I’m just the mean one.” 

D’Artagnan puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m not arguing that point. You are _definitely_ mean.” 

“You’re so sweet,” she coos. “No wonder my cousin is so mad for you.” 

D’Artagnan can feel his cheeks heating up even as he grins back at her. “Did he say that to you?”

“Of course not.” Jeanette glances at her watch, and stubs out her cigarette. “He just has no poker face at all, not when he’s in love. On that note, I’ve got to throw you out now, I’ve got client meetings all the rest of the day.” 

“Aren’t I a client?” he says, getting to his feet and shrugging his jacket on. 

“Yes, and your time is up.” She rounds her desk and kisses his cheeks. “It shouldn’t be too long now. I’ll call as soon as I have news.” 

 

There’s nothing to do afterward except go back home – not knowing what to expect, he’d taken the whole morning off. The flat feels unusually empty: Lina hasn’t come in yet, and Athos had left before d’Artagnan was even out of bed, brushing a kiss over his mouth and laughing softly when d’Artagnan’s response was a yawn.  

Lina arrives at noon and orders him out from under her feet by 12:10; with no other options immediately presenting themselves, he goes in to the office. There’s always paperwork, and Athos will be there. 

Except Athos isn’t there. The department admin hasn’t seen him all day. He’s not on the detail schedule for the next two weeks, and the board doesn’t show that he’s picked up any shifts. The meeting rooms on their floor are empty. Athos isn’t in the gym, isn’t at the firing range, and when Porthos rolls in for his 3 to 11, Porthos says he hasn’t heard from him. 

D’Artagnan goes back downstairs and takes out his frustration on the heavy bag for a while, then runs until he’s close to falling down. When he gets back home near five-thirty, the flat is dark. 

It’s close to eight when Athos finally gets home, purple circles under his eyes and flexing his right hand like it’s killing him. D’Artagnan closes his iPad cover on the movie he’d been watching, and pops his earbuds out of his ears. 

“Hey,” he says cautiously. 

“Ugh,” Athos says, shedding his outer layers before crossing the room and cupping d’Artagnan’s face for a sloppy, tired kiss. “Sorry I’m so late. I should’ve let you know.” 

“That would’ve been nice,” d’Artagnan agrees, brushing the back of his hand over Athos’ cheek. “I was worried, but I didn’t want to bother you…” 

“I wish you had.” He flops down in his chair, tilting back and folding his hands on his stomach. “I could’ve pled an emergency at home and escaped.” 

“I was at the office all afternoon, I didn’t see you.” 

“No, we were off-site.” Athos opens his eyes, squinting across the room. “Are you upset? I’m sorry, it’s just. Above your clearance, and—“ 

“It’s okay.” D’Artagnan tries to smile, and finds it easier than he’d feared. Having Athos home, present and real and obviously exhausted, soothes the itch of anxiety. He stands up and stretches. “Did you eat?”

“No” Athos says with a pathetic little moan. “I would knife a man for some food right now.” 

“Luckily, that’s not necessary,” d’Artagnan laughs. He ruffles Athos’ hair as he walks by, and receives a swat on the ass in return. 

It’s a nice night after all. They have a late supper, a shared shower, and a slow, lazy fuck. D’Artagnan falls asleep tucked safely against Athos’ side, letting the sound of Athos’ breathing, the warmth of his presence, soothe away his fears.   

 

“I’m really trying not to be paranoid,” d’Artagnan says on the phone to Marion, three days later. Three mornings of Athos disappearing before d’Artagnan wakes, communicating mostly in texts and notes left on the bedside table; three nights of missed suppers and the same excuses. “He’ll say he’s got meetings all day, but then the office says he’s not there, and he hasn’t come home until late the last few days. When I ask he tells me not to worry, that it’s about work.”  

From the other end of the line, he hears a shriek and then Marion’s voice, muffled, saying something in Italian. She sounds torn between amusement and exasperation when she comes back on. “Parenthood,” she says, “means saying things you never expected to say to other human beings in your life. Things like, ‘take the dinosaur out of your brother’s butt.’” 

D’Artagnan laughs in spite of himself. “I don’t think I want to know any more.” 

“Oh, you’ll see for yourself, someday,” she says lightly. 

“I don’t know about that.” He shrugs, pushing his hair back and tugging at it. “What if—“ 

“D’Artagnan. Why, exactly are you bringing this to me?” 

He exhales, pushing a long forceful breath out before answering. “Because… you know things.” 

Marion makes an amused noise. “That’s true. But not what my cousin is up to, I’m sorry.”

She does, for what it’s worth, sound genuinely sympathetic, but d’Artagnan can’t hold in another explosive sigh. “Sorry,” he echoes back to her. “I called Jeanette first. I thought it might have something to do with our, with the thing.” 

“I know about your case,” Marion says. 

He raises an eyebrow, even though she can’t see it. “Like I said.” 

“Because _the thing_ affects this whole family, it’s my business. Hold on.”

This time Marion’s voice is much less muffled, and while he still can’t understand the words, the amusement in her voice has evaporated. The voices in the background go silent. 

“Excuse my animals,” she says, coming back on the line. “Carlo has been in New York and he’s not due in until late tonight, and Giulia is in bed with a nasty flu. Our nanny. I’ve been taking calls from home all afternoon and we’re all at the ends of each other’s nerves.” 

“Do you want some help?” d’Artagnan says, and Marion laughs. 

“Don’t make that offer unless you mean it!” 

The words had been a sort of automatic politeness, but he does mean it. He’s still at loose ends otherwise, the same as he’s been since he arrived home after work an hour earlier. Watching the clock, re-cleaning the already sparkling kitchen. He could have a bath, read a book, watch a movie, but none of it would _distract_ him, and distraction is very much what he needs right now. 

“I absolutely mean it,” he says. “Give me twenty minutes. I’ll leave Athos a note.” 

A few hours later finds d’Artagnan drowsing on the sofa in the playroom, Chiara clinging to him like a sweaty limpet and drooling on his shirt in her sleep. Every minute or so he can hear the whisper of Gianni turning pages as the boy reads in an oversized chair across the room. His back is killing him. 

The kids had greeted him with a bit of wariness; they nodded when Marion asked if they remembered their uncle’s boyfriend, and seemed pleased that he remembered their names, but Chiara especially had regarded him with open skepticism. At least, until he’d asked her about her toys. 

Chiara’s obsession with dinosaurs was not limited to the ones d’Artagnan remembered from his own Jurassic Park-loving childhood; she was into any and all giant lizards. Particularly Godzilla. Within ten minutes of his first, ignorant,  _hey, is that a T-Rex?,_  he found himself playing the parts of the villager being eaten by the monster, the train driver being eaten by the monster, the train car being crushed by the monster…

With someone else to bear the brunt of his little sister’s relentless energy, Gianni was content to curl up with his books and stay out of the path of the destruction. The last time Marion had looked in she'd asked if he could occupy the kids about another hour and a half; he'd grinned and honestly said he was enjoying himself. As much abuse as an enthusiastic five year old could mete out, it was still better than the slow, grinding stress of  _waiting_. Physical exhaustion is something like relaxation, though; he lets his eyes close for a moment, a moment longer, just a moment more.

Low-pitched voices filter through odd dreams, voices he knows. 

"—supper?"

"No, I need to get him home. There's been so much—"

"He's worried."

"I know. All the more reason to spend some time taking care of him."

D'Artagnan sighs in his half-sleep, blinks when he feels Chiara's weight lifted from his shoulder.  He catches a glimpse of Marion's soft smile as she turns her face into Chiara's curls; he blinks again and sees Athos, feels him sit and brush his knuckles over d'Artagnan's cheek. 

"Hey," he mumbles, pushing into Athos' palm, and Athos' eyes go soft and dark. 

"You both looked so sweet, we didn't have the heart to wake you." 

"Hmm?"

Athos strokes over d'Artagnan's brow, back down his cheek, along his jaw. "I've been here about an hour. Downstairs with Gianni. You and Chiara were gone."

"She wore me out,” d'Artagnan agrees, and yawns. 

“And vice versa, apparently. For which her mother is very grateful.” Athos kisses him then, slow and lingering at first, a gentle puff of breath on a tiny spark. It builds, till d’Artagnan is leaning up into it, wrapping his hand around the back of Athos’ neck and trying to pull him closer. It feels like it’s been forever since they shared a kiss like that. 

“Hey,” he says, breathless, when they finally break.

“Yeah,” Athos answers. “Come on, let’s go home."

The kids are tearing happily into pasta and salad when they go downstairs; d'Artagnan feels a surge of warmth and delight when they clamor for him to stay, and pout when he apologizes that he can't. 

"We'll see you at Easter, remember?" Athos promises, dropping kisses on each child's head. D'Artagnan receives a strangling hug from Chiara before she returns to her dinosaur-shaped macaroni. 

Goodbyes with Marion are less protracted; she tells d’Artagnan that she owes him, and he tells her he’s happy to do it again any time. They exchange embraces, then Athos takes d’Artagnan by the hand, leading him down the stairs, out onto the street. 

“You rode?” d’Artagnan says, seeing the Ducati parked at the curb, two helmets on the seat. Athos shrugs. 

“My hand is much better, and it’s not a long distance. Would you rather walk?” 

“No,” d’Artagnan laughs. “No, if you feel up to it…” 

Athos grins, pulling the keys out of his pocket. “Take the long way?” 

It takes about fifteen minutes to weave west through the evening traffic and onto the _Périphérique._ Athos blatantly disregards the speed limit, zipping around slower vehicles; they are molded together back to front, leaning into the curves as one. There’s nothing but the roar of the engine, the wind against d’Artagnan’s cheeks, the solid warmth of Athos between his thighs and in his arms. They don’t see a single police car. 

They make one full circuit of the city and almost complete a second; Athos gets off at the Porte de Charenton and doubles back, takes them along the river and then northeast up the Boulevard de la Bastille before turning west again, into the Marais. Athos finishes off the trip with a loop around the Place des Vôsges, sparkling in the dark, before pulling over near the Victor Hugo house and cutting the engine. 

D’Artagnan pulls his helmet off, and runs his fingers through his hair. “Do you want to break into the park and make out?” he teases. “It’s okay, my parents think I’m staying over at Julien’s tonight.” 

Athos takes off his own helmet, and looks back at d’Artagnan over his shoulder. “Did you do a lot of ‘staying over at Julien’s’ in your misspent youth?” 

“In the sense that I would go over and we’d play video games until four in the morning, yes, I did.” D’Artagnan leans and kisses the corner of Athos’ mouth. “When I was up to no good, I would just sneak out. There was no point in creating collateral damage if one of my friends got caught in my lie.” 

“Very sensible,” Athos drawls, turning his gaze toward the darkened park. “Listen, I stopped because. Before we go home, I just wanted to say to you.” He pauses, and d’Artagnan can just make out the furrow in his brow. 

“What is it?” He touches the back of Athos’ neck, and Athos arches back into it, sighing. 

“No, it can wait.” Athos bows his head a second, muttering something that d’Artagnan can’t hear, then concludes, louder, “It should probably wait.” 

“Is it about where you’ve been?” d’Artagnan asks cautiously. He thinks about getting off the bike, so he can stand up and look at Athos in the face, but Athos grunts and shakes his head. 

“No. That really is work, I promise you.” He reaches back and grabs d’Artagnan’s hand, bringing it around and up to his lips to press a kiss to d’Artagnan’s knuckles. “I shouldn’t be telling you this yet either, but… if. When. The… authorities. Are able to make the arrest that they’ve been seeking? The news will travel around the world in an instant, and _our_ jobs are going to become impossible. No one is going to believe that Louis was uninvolved or unaware. He’ll be ten times the target he’s been up to now.” 

D’Artagnan nods slowly, “Putting Madame in more danger as well,” he says, seeing the pieces fall together in his mind. “All of the upper level people in corporate—“ 

“Some of whom may end up being arrested themselves,” Athos points out. “We have no idea what the scope of the indictments will be in the end, particularly if people start rolling over on each other. Shit,” he says, shifting and then letting go d’Artagnan’s hand with a squeeze. “All right, I’ve already started telling you, I may as well finish. Let’s do it at home.” 

It takes only minutes to get back to their building, to wheel the bike down into the garage and head up to the flat. Athos isn’t visibly agitated; he just looks tired, like he always looks these days. They move around quietly, in familiar patterns, a dance becoming more and more smooth with each repetition. In the end they drop onto the sofa with a bottle of wine, facing each other with legs tangled, hands within easy reach. 

D’Artagnan rests his cheek on the back of the sofa. The only light in the room is what’s coming from the city outside, and from the kitchen doorway. Athos stifles a yawn with his palm. 

“We could just go to bed,” d’Artagnan offers, and Athos nods his head, a soft smile spreading across his face.

“Mm, good idea. A good solid nap, then one of your midnight carbonaras. Then make love until dawn.” 

“I don’t think we have any bacon.” D’Artagnan sips his wine, rubs at the corner of his eye. “The rest sounds good.” 

“I was going to. Take you to bed, take care of you tonight.” Athos looks down into his glass a moment. “It’s been a little while, it’s. Strange.” 

“It is,” d’Artagnan admits. “But we’ll settle back into our life, Athos, I have to believe that. Once this is over. Otherwise, what’s the point?” 

“Isn’t it justice?” 

“Of course justice.” D’Artagnan frowns. “But that’s a lonely life, if that’s all you have. My father wouldn’t want me… He’d have been appalled, at what I did in the beginning. At what I tried to do. He would be happy to see us like this. We’ll have our justice, and we’ll share in the peace afterward.” 

Athos puts his glass down, takes d’Artagnan’s from his hand and does the same. D’Artagnan can’t help smiling, knowing what’s coming: Athos cups his face and kisses him, slow, deep, and messy. 

“Yes, we will,” Athos says when they pause, and he settles back against his end of the sofa. “And that’s what I’ve been trying to do. We—Tréville, Souza, me, Mandel, Julie Zidane, you’ve never met her—“ 

“I’ve heard of her.” Zidane was Souza’s counterpart at the head of the corporate security department. She was, in Aramis’ admiring words, willowy and vicious. 

“The five of us have been trying to figure out what will happen next. The Bourbon contracts make up a substantial portion of the TS income, but more than that, they’re the heart of the company’s reputation. If it were merely a financial concern, I don’t think that Tréville would be having us at the table. And it’s not just image, something for communications to spin. There’s a very real concern that TS may unknowingly have du Plessis employees on its own teams. That strikes at the heart of the trust that we _must_ have with clients. How can we promise anyone safety if we can’t even say for certain that our own ranks are secure?”

D’Artagnan nods, the picture of the last week starting to sharpen. “You’ve been reviewing every single personnel file, haven’t you?” he asks softly. “Every single incident report.” 

Athos huffs and shrugs. “Among other things. Tréville hasn’t ruled out shutting down altogether, if it comes to that. But that would mean laying off scores of staff, and he doesn’t want to do that, either. It’s a fucking mess.” 

“I’m sorry.” D’Artagnan takes Athos’ right hand between his, carefully massaging the palm with his thumbs. “Can I help?”

“No, I wasn’t supposed to tell you. So please don’t go gossiping.” Athos gives him a smile, and small moan of pleasure at what d’Artagnan’s doing to his hand. “But one more thing—whenever the arrests begin, you and I are taking a leave of absence.” 

It makes sense. Their connection to the case might be discovered, making what already promises to be a fraught period even worse. It would be impossible to work, should that happen. D’Artagnan nods again. “I get it,” he says. 

“I knew you would. Tréville was adamant that we keep it quiet, and I see his point, but. You’re involved in a way no one else is. You have a right to know.” Athos nudges d’Artagnan’s knee with his own, fighting back another yawn. “Bed now, I think?”

D’Artagnan feels his own mouth opening, jaw cracking on a massive yawn. He nods and gets up, knowing Athos will follow. 

They wake again more or less as Athos predicted, after midnight, sweaty and hungry. D’Artagnan was right earlier, he doesn’t have the ingredients for carbonara, but he can do a big sloppy omelet. They share it standing at the counter, burning their tongues on melted cheese and murmuring about inconsequential things. D’Artagnan is loading the dishwasher when he feels Athos touch the back of his neck, first gently, then firmly taking hold. 

It’s a question, not an order, and d’Artagnan answers with a low, happy sound, pushing back into Athos’ grip. “Let me finish cleaning up,” he says.

Athos squeezes, a promise, before releasing him. “Is there anything specific you’d like?” he asks, leaning back on the sink. “Or just to get out of your head?”

“Out of my head,” d’Artagnan says. “As out of it as possible.” He puts the last dish into the washer and slides the drawer closed, wiping his hands on his jeans. He bumps his nose against Athos’ when they kiss. 

Athos catches d’Artagnan’s wrists, holding them a little more tightly than necessary. “I hope you haven’t forgotten how to do this,” he says, his voice rough and teasing. 

“I don’t know,” d’Artagnan answers, lifting his chin in challenge. “I might need to be retrained.” 

The wry lift of Athos’ eyebrow lets d’Artagnan know that the game is on as he’s turned, shoved up against the front of the refrigerator with a thump. 

“Then we’ll start from the beginning again,” Athos says. “Tell me you at least remember how to get started.” 

“Hmmm. I say _green_ , and you—“

It’s not quite like starting over. D’Artagnan isn’t scared, he isn’t confused; he knows he loves and is loved. When Athos tells him to wash up and wait at the end of the bed, he knows that nothing’s going to happen that won’t feel good, that there’s no mistake he could make that would lead to anything worse than a time out. 

“It must’ve been difficult,” Athos observes lazily, looking down at d’Artagnan where he’s tied to the headboard, twisting against his bonds. “A slut like you, having to go so many days without what he needs.” 

“Please,” d’Artagnan moans. Athos has three fingers in d’Artagnan’s ass, fucking him rough and slow; the world has receded to a hazy golden glow. He has no idea what time it is, how long Athos has been teasing him: Athos hasn’t touched his cock even once. “Please. I need it.” 

Athos presses and d’Artagnan cries out; his cock jerks but he holds on. 

“Please,” he begs again. “Let me. Please let me come.” 

“Is that all? You just want to come?” Athos leans down to kiss him and d’Artagnan responds with a greedy whine, trying to get leverage on the ropes to push against Athos’ hand, to rock up against Athos’ hips. Athos keeps just out of reach, pulls back from the kiss and d’Artagnan struggles again, trying not to scream. 

“You’ve been so good tonight,” Athos says, rocking back on his heels. He strokes over the inside of d’Artagnan’s thigh, the skin there so sensitized that d’Artagnan shudders all over. “But you don’t get what you want unless you can say it.” 

It aches, it burns, when Athos takes his hand away. Through lashes stuck together by tears and sweat d’Artagnan can see Athos wiping his fingers, tossing the damp towel in the direction of the hamper, and that makes something twitch in his brain. He knows that Athos would never drop him. He doesn’t feel in the least unsafe, or worried, but the implied threat of being left like this is just enough to push him past the last of his resistance. 

“I want to come on your cock,” he whispers, biting his lip. “Please, Athos, help me.” 

Athos leans down again, taking d’Artagnan’s mouth with a snarl. It takes only a moment’s rearrangement, a shift and a push, and Athos is inside him. When did Athos pause to slick up? It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, d’Artagnan rocks up into it, and everything is right.  

 

They’re still dozing in the morning when d’Artagnan’s phone rings; he swats blindly at it and the ringing stops. Athos’ phone starts a moment later, and Athos groans and picks it up while d’Artagnan rolls away onto his back, flinging his arm up over his face.

“What?” he says. “Yes,” he says. “All right,” he says. “I will,” he says, and puts the phone back on the night table. 

“Whassit?” d’Artagnan mumbles, and feels Athos sweep his fingers along d’Artagnan’s jaw, over his chin. 

“That was Jeanette,” he says. “Your petition’s been granted. Anne’s deposition is in two days.” 

 

“I should be there,” Athos insists for fifth or twentieth time, d’Artagnan has lost count. And like every other time he’s said it, Jeanette has looked at him like she’s just barely resisting the urge to punch him in the mouth. 

“No. Olivier, you know I hate repeating myself, sit down.” She points at the chair across from her desk until he obeys, glaring all the while. “You’re not a party to the case, either of them. It’s inappropriate. And d’Artagnan will be fine without you.”

He’s grateful for her vote of confidence, even though he’s not at all certain himself. They’d spent the bulk of the day before cloistered here in her office, running through scenarios with two of her assistants, Jeanette patiently—more patiently than he might’ve given her credit for at the start—coaching him through remaining calm, answering any questions he might be asked with the simplest version of the truth. 

“It’s highly unlikely,” she says now, as she’d said yesterday, “that he’ll be asked to say anything at all. We’re there to witness her confession, and I understand that you feel _cheated_ , Olivier—“

“That is not—“ 

“But you going in there and losing your temper helps no one. _No one._ ” 

D’Artagnan watches Athos’ face, struggling with exactly that temper. Finally he gives his cousin a curt nod, and d’Artagnan breathes a little easier. 

“After we leave, go home,” he suggests, leaning over and kissing Athos’ cheek. “See if the guys are off this afternoon, maybe, so you’re not sitting there alone?”

Athos shakes his head at first, but then nods. “I’ll… figure something out.” 

Jeanette’s phone pings, and she picks it up. “The car’s here,” she says, swiping her finger across the screen. “It’s time.” 

The room is hot and crowded, entirely too small for the number of people wedged into it. The table seats seven on each long side, although it was plainly designed for six; d’Artagnan and Jeanette are squashed together on the short end furthest from the door. Judge Bourdon, surrounded by Ministry of Justice people, sits in the middle of the near side. Across from her is Anne, right in the middle of it all, with her phalanx of attorneys. Some of them nod at Jeannette before sitting. No one looks at d’Artagnan. 

Anne’s hair is pulled back into a sleek twist; her jacket and skirt, he knows from recent experience, are Chanel, brand new this season. She has a pale blue scarf around her throat. If it weren’t for the armed guards and the shackles, you’d think she was sitting down to lunch at L’Avenue. 

Someone clears their throat loudly. Someone else says in a too-bright voice, “Are we ready?” and is answered by a murmured wave of affirmatives. 

D’Artagnan reaches up and loosens his tie. Jeanette takes his wrist and brings his hand back down again.

The man to the right of Judge Bourdon leans slightly forward, a stack of papers in his hands. 

“Madame, please state your name for the record.” 

She gives him a coy half-smile. “Anne de Breuil.” 

“And you are here today to plead guilty to the charge of aggravated assault upon Charles d’Artagnan, as well as to provide information to this court regarding the murder of Alexandre d’Artagnan, is that correct?” 

“Yes.” 

“And your counsel has reviewed with you the terms offered by this court?”  

“Yes.” 

“And you have agreed to the terms offered by this court?” 

“Yes.” 

The man passes his stack of papers across to the attorney on Anne’s left. The attorney flips through them, passing a few to Anne along with a shiny gold pen from his shirt pocket. She scribbles a signature on those, her restraints clicking against the edge of the table, then the papers are passed back. 

D’Artagnan notices she keeps the pen. 

“The name of the man who shot Alexandre d’Artagnan is Philippe Gaudet.” She glances at d’Artagnan for a second, only a second, looking so smug, before she faces Judge Bourdon again. “And he was hired by me.” 

He should probably be surprised, d’Artagnan thinks, but it makes sense, it’s the first thing that’s ever made sense about his father’s death. Mostly he just feels relief. It’s that hot and cold sort of high feeling, where the end of a fight is in sight and a last minute burst of adrenaline has just dropped into your veins—you might still vomit, you might still cry, but you know it’s almost over. 

Jeanette puts her hand on d’Artagnan’s arm. 

“More specifically,” Anne goes on, “Gaudet was hired to frame another man for the murder of M. d’Artagnan—which Gaudet did, albeit too sloppily for it to stick.” 

“Who was the man you intended to be blamed for M. d’Artagnan’s death?” 

“Olivier d’Athos de la Fère, my ex-husband.” 

Jeanette’s hand tightens on d’Artagnan’s arm, but when he sneaks a glance at her, she looks perfectly composed. 

“So your motivation for this assassination was personal?” Judge Bourdon asks, speaking over whatever the other man was about to say. 

“No. I was asked to arrange the murder and to make sure that a high-ranking member of Tréville Sécurité was blamed—the fact that my ex-husband fit the criteria was merely a satisfying coincidence. The _motive_ was to… disrupt Tréville operations by making it appear that the company was employing a killer.” 

“Then why,” the judge asks, “was M. d’Artagnan chosen as the target?” 

Anne turns slightly, looking straight at d’Artagnan. “Because I told Gaudet to make sure he killed someone who looked like they’d be missed.”

His ears pop when he clenches his jaw. He thinks of the last time he saw his father's face, his drooping moustache framed in a Skype window, the lag from the crappy wireless on base making his lips move a few seconds out of sync with his voice, like an old dubbed movie. They were laughing about something, d'Artagnan doesn't even remember what. They made a date to chat again after his dad got back from Orleans. 

"You're all right," Jeanette murmurs in his ear, slipping her arm around his shoulders, and that's when he realizes he's shaking. 

“So M. d’Artagnan was murdered senselessly,” Judge Bourdon is saying in an icy voice, “in order for you to embarrass a private security firm? Is that correct?” 

Anne narrows her eyes. “No.” 

“You said you were asked to arrange the murder to damage the reputation of Tréville Sécurité. Would you care to indulge this court by naming your employer? Or by ‘asked’ did you mean it was merely a personal favor?” 

“I was paid by Armand du Plessis.” 

No one on Anne’s side of the table seems shocked by the revelation; she must have told them what she had to bargain with. Murmurs spring up on the judge’s side, notes are being scribbled frantically on pads, and d’Artagnan feels lightheaded, knowing most of it is likely put on. She thinks she’s surprised them. Good. 

“That’s a very serious accusation to make against such a prominent business figure,” Judge Bourdon says, chiding. “M. du Plessis has a spotless reputation.” 

“M. du Plessis,” Anne says, rolling her eyes, “frequently needs the services of less spotless individuals, in order to keep his own reputation clean.” 

“You have proof?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you certain that the order came from du Plessis?”

Anne smiles. “He requested my services personally.” 

The judge watches Anne in silence a moment, her expression betraying nothing—not satisfaction, not triumph. She might be thinking of her next question, she might be trying to decide what to have for supper. She watches Anne long enough that Anne’s composure starts to crack, Anne’s smile becoming less mocking, less certain. It’s long enough that the attorney to Anne’s right speaks up. 

“Your Honor, if you have no further questions—“

“When did I say that I had no further questions, Counselor?” the judge says coolly. “No, we still have a great deal to talk about, haven’t we, Milady?” 

The smile drops away, and Anne turns white.

“I believe _we_ are done here, however,” Jeanette interjects over the furious whispers from both sides of the table. She keeps her arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders as she stands, pulling him up with her. “My client has been through enough.” 

“Please accept my sincere sympathy,” the judge says, looking at d’Artagnan, “for your loss.” 

“Thank you,” he says, and is somewhat surprised to find he means it. 

 

They’re both quiet in the car after they leave the court; Jeanette tells the driver d’Artagnan’s address and then focuses almost entirely on her phone, tapping at the screen with her right thumb. Her left hand, though, has found its way back to d’Artagnan’s arm—she simply rests it there, just below his elbow, a warm and comforting presence. 

“Do you want to come up?” he offers when they pull up outside his building. “Athos would probably—“

“I have to be at trial tomorrow, I have prep to finish,” she says, squeezing his arm. “I’m not like Guy, I can’t be at the family’s beck and call around the clock.” 

“You’re plenty like Guy,” d’Artagnan says honestly, unable to keep from smiling. “Just like he did… you didn’t have to help me, but you did.” 

Jeanette shakes her head. “You brought Olivier, _Athos_ … you brought him home, d’Artagnan. She tried to take him from us. But you brought him home.” She leans over and kisses his cheek. “Now get out of my car, or I will start billing you.” 

He laughs and gives her a quick hug in return, but once out on the street he has to stop and brace himself against the door, pulling in deep breaths, waiting for the dizziness to pass. It’s over, for real this time. It’s over, and he has the truth. 

Porthos and Aramis are there when he goes into the flat; he sees them first, sitting on the sofa with beers in hand, pizza boxes on the coffee table. Porthos puts his drink down at the sight of d’Artagnan; he’s up and across the room almost immediately, wrapping d’Artagnan in tight hug. 

“Hey,” Porthos says, rubbing d’Artagnan’s back. “He’s on the phone in the other room.” 

“Hey,” d’Artagnan echoes, trying to smile. He feels exhausted. “Did you save me any lunch?”

“Come on,” Aramis says, patting the seat beside him. “Do you want some warmed up? It’s only been here fifteen minutes or so—“ 

D’Artagnan toes off his shoes, shrugs out of his jacket and pulls his tie free. “As long as the beer isn’t warm, I don’t care if the pizza is cold.” He tosses his things over a chair, pads into the room to take the seat Aramis offered, but stops short when Athos comes out from the hall. 

He looks more or less the same as he had when d’Artagnan saw him just a couple of hours earlier, still wearing the black trousers and deep blue shirt he’d worn to Jeanette’s office. His hair is falling out of its elastic, though, and he looks bruised beneath his eyes, like he’s been in a fight. He’s the most beautiful thing d’Artagnan has ever seen. 

“That was Guy,” Athos says, holding up his phone. “He said—Are you all right?” 

“She did it,” he says, the words leaving him in a rush. “I’m not supposed to tell you this, I don’t think, I don’t care, she did it. It was all part of some… plot, Armand and her—“

“Shh,” Athos soothes, pulling d’Artagnan into his arms. “Shh, I’ve got you. You don’t need to do any more; you’re done, all right? I’ve got you.” 

He nods into Athos’ neck, letting himself shake. He doesn’t cry—he will later, he’s sure—but this feels like a similar kind of release, letting the tension and fear shiver away. 

“Should we go?” Aramis asks gently from somewhere behind him, and d’Artagnan lifts his head. 

“No, no, please don’t,” he says, leaning into Athos’ side. “Let’s just eat, please. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

He ends up pressed warmly between Aramis and Porthos on the sofa, Athos pulling his usual chair closer to be able to reach the food. D’Artagnan gets two slices in him before he’s ready to ask what Guy’s call was about. 

“Mm, it’s good news, actually,” Athos says around a mouthful of crust. He stops, swallows, takes a long drink before continuing. “An update on the farm. Your former tenants have been successfully evicted, and Gilbert’s found new lessees who’re happy to meet your very reasonable terms.” 

“I don’t know what my terms are,” he says, unable to suppress a smile. 

“Well, surely they’re reasonable,” Aramis says, saluting Athos with his beer bottle. 

“Very reasonable,” Athos repeats with a raised eyebrow. “About four times more reasonable than what you were getting before.” 

“Wow. That’s—“ 

“What the farm is worth,” Athos says firmly. “The new operators won’t be occupying the house, however, they’re based nearby. Gilbert said he’d be happy to find an estate agent, if you wanted to rent it separately?” 

“No,” d’Artagnan answers, glancing at Porthos, suddenly certain. “No, sorry, let’s just… keep it. I want to keep it.” 

“Then you’ll keep it,” Athos says, nodding. “It’s your home, you don’t have to apologize for that.” 

D’Artagnan nods back, and knows they are both thinking of the chateau in La Fère, held safe all these years for its master’s return. 

“That’s good timing,” Porthos points out. “You were saying before d’Artagnan got home that you were going to get out of Paris for a few days once the shit hit. Why not a trip to the country?” 

“Why not? D’Artagnan?” 

Why not? He tries to picture it, walking down the narrow lanes of Lupiac with Athos’ hand in his. Athos in the gardens, d’Artagnan’s mother’s roses rioting along the back wall of the house. Athos in the big master bed, sleepy in a dusty shaft of sunlight while d’Artagnan brings him breakfast. It’s perfectly, wonderfully easy. 

Athos’ phone rings before d’Artagnan can respond; Athos looks down at it with a frown. “Tréville,” he says, and picks it up. “Yes?”

Athos is silent through the whole call, almost a full minute. Then he says, “Thank you, sir,” and hangs up. 

“Tréville’s got someone inside the MOJ who says the indictments are being filed within the hour,” he tells them flatly. “Armand’s top of the list. He also said Louis would likely be questioned, although he’s not being arrested, yet.” 

“Jesus, it’s really happening,” Aramis breathes. 

“Souza is mobilizing Team Two to get Madame and Constance into a safe spot—probably to Anne’s sister in Madrid. Five and Six will share Louis detail.” Athos raises his own bottle in a wry toast. “And Team Three is officially on leave.” 

"Team Three has fucking earned it," Porthos growls, but holds out his bottle as well. "To d'Artagnan." 

"To d'Artagnan  _père_ ,” Athos adds, before d’Artagnan _fils_ can protest. 

“To vacation,” Aramis says, grinning.

D’Artagnan blinks at the wetness in his eyes. “To us.” 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**epilogue**

 

“You know we don’t have to do this,” Athos says for the hundredth time, and d’Artagnan sighs when Athos touches his face, trailing the backs of fingers down d’Artagnan’s cheek. 

“I want to,” d’Artagnan says, also for the hundredth time. “I told you I want to, if you stop again I’m going to hit you.” 

“You are absolutely sure you’re ready for this?” 

D’Artagnan sighs again, putting his own hands on Athos’ face. “Listen to me. Of course it hurts. It’s always going to hurt, at least a little, and that’s all right. I love you, I love that you want to protect me from everything, but first, you can’t, and second, this… it’s not really that big—oh my god.”

“What?” Athos shifts, his concerned expression deepening into a frown as d’Artagnan breaks out into a grin. 

“Oh my god, you’re _nervous_.” 

Athos pulls away from d’Artagnan’s hands with a scowl, stepping back onto the path that cuts through the center of the cemetery. “Fine,” he snaps. “Yes. I am. I have no earthly idea why.” 

“You’re nervous about meeting my _dead parents._ ” d’Artagnan throws his arms around Athos, smacking a kiss on his forehead. “That’s it, come on. It’s just over there.” 

The family crypt is in the oldest part of the cemetery, visible from the Route Aignan but furthest from the gate. It’s no bigger than most of its neighbors, the whitewash on the stone yellowed and flaking away from the brick in parts. He should have it restored, he thinks. The facing stone is all but smooth now, only faint impressions remaining at the top, just a couple of legible lines at the bottom. He wonders if his aunts are still alive, if there’s anyone left who know the names that have been worn away by wind and water and time.  

The name D’ARTAGNAN still stands out on the lintel, under a relief of the Virgin, crowned in glory, holding her Child, his hand out in blessing. D’Artagnan crosses himself by reflex, and points to the flat stone set at the foot of the crypt. 

_Maria Teresa Esposito d’Artagnan ~ Beloved Wife and Mother_

“Mama,” he says softly, catching Athos’ hand before gesturing to the matching stone, its letters still sharp. 

_Alexandre d’Artagnan ~ Beloved Husband and Father_

“Papa,” he says. 

Athos is silent, his head bowed, his fingers curling and uncurling in d’Artagnan’s hand. The sun is warm on their shoulders; the air is light with spring smells, flowers and earth. 

“I’m sorry,” Athos says at last, his voice so soft. “I wish that it didn’t have to be… I wish you and I could’ve met some other way.”

“We would have,” d’Artagnan says immediately, the certainty thick and solid in his chest and in his mouth. “Any way, every way. Maybe your parents lived and you and I met in the army. Maybe my dad lived and I got hired at Tréville when I got out. Maybe we met at a bar, maybe I sat down beside you on the Métro one day, it doesn’t matter, we would have. But we _didn’t_ , and everything that happened _happened_ , and if there is a world after this one… my parents, yours? They’re glad we have each other. They’re glad we love each other.” 

Athos nods after a moment, looking up at d’Artagnan with a wry smile. “All right. God. You are so much smarter than me, sometimes.” 

“Only sometimes?” d’Artagnan teases, and Athos’ smile widens. 

“I see you before coffee _every day_ , darling.” 

“Fine, you have me there.” He kisses the corner of Athos’ mouth, and Athos squeezes his fingers. 

For a while there’s nothing but the sounds of birds, the occasional passing car, the breeze through the large stand of pine that clumps along one side of the cemetery. A tractor starts up the hill behind them. D’Artagnan thinks about walking through the summer pastures with his parents, one on either side, lifting him up to swing between them. His mother’s laugh, and her black hair flying like a banner in the wind. He thinks about drowsing on the sofa on winter nights, watching as his parents kissed in the firelight before one of them scooped him up to carry to bed. No, there had not been enough time, but the time there was had been so full of love.

“Thanks for coming,” he says, pressing into Athos’ side. He feels Athos kiss his temple, and then pull away. 

“Well.” Athos clears his throat, rubs his hands together; he glances down at the stones again and then back up at d’Artagnan. “Since we’re here. With your parents, ah. There’s something I want to ask you.” 

D’Artagnan nods, feeling a smile spread over his face like the sun. Athos’ eyes are bright and clear, almost the same shade of blue as the sky. 

 

_— **nouvelle orleans, 24 avril 2016**_

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what to say. it's been almost two years since I began work on this (June 2014) and any sort of summary of the experience seems inadequate. but if you're one of the people who waited, thanks.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [here we are millionaires](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2000334) by [mellyflori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori)
  * [apparent horizon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048817) by [ceeturnalia (traveller)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/ceeturnalia)




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